fic; doctor who: Gallifrey Records (3/3. rock band AU.)
title: Gallifrey Records (part 3/3)
co-author: gallifreyburning!
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10/Rose, ROCK BAND AU.
rating: PG-13, this part.
words: 5,847, this part; 16,867, total.
notes: This was written by gallifreyburning and allrightfine (that's me!), in a "fic tennis" style, where we take turns with the story. (The prompt photo is under the cut, but for a version with the breakdown of who wrote what, you can read it on Tumblr here, too!)
summary/intro: An alternate universe where the Doctor is a rock star, and Rose Tyler is his most recent opening act. Kissing, farewell tour angst, and just about everyone and everything we could fit in from new (and old!) Who.
previous sections: part 1. part 2.
As Rose suspected might happen, the Doctor didn’t kiss her again, and he certainly didn’t ever mention the incident aloud.
Neither did she.
It wasn’t as though it had never happened – simply as though they’d tucked it away beneath layers of hugs and hand-holding and something-more-than-friendship. Regardless, the incident had opened a door between them; they’d both put their cards on the table, admitted how much they needed each other, and after that they were the Doctor and Rose, inexorable and inextricable.
Their connection was, to put it mildly, noticed. The gossip rags labeled Rose as the Doctor’s new “Companion” so fast, Jackie called her up two days later shrieking that she shouldn’t let her ovaries do her thinking because she had an image to maintain, and “are you using protection, because lord only knows how many diseases that man’s carrying”—“Muuuum, it isn’t like that, really!”
Their chemistry on-stage was undeniable, and at each stop thousands of camera-phones and music columnists took note as they harmonized during their duets. If Rose had the self-control to pretend she was singing to anyone but the Doctor when she belted out lyrics about love and completion, she wasn’t inclined to exercise it.
He didn’t seem to be, either.
But neither of them said anything of the sort outside of these moments onstage, eyes locked and guitars between them.
When Donna pulled Rose aside one day, two months after the incident at the pool, and asked, “Are you and he…?” Rose could only stare back at her and shrug a little.
When they weren’t on-stage, they dove right into the local culture. Each day was a different adventure (or misadventure), sometimes with Donna or Martha or Wilf or any number of the people that Rose had come to feel were her extended family, but always the Doctor and Rose together.
Once, the Doctor and Rose and Martha got tangled up at a hospital in Prague that was put on lockdown, and spent an entire day trying to get out in time for that night’s performance.
Another day, with Donna, they found themselves in the thick of a local labor uprising, and without them the workers in the main factory of Budesti, Moldovia would still be in virtual slavery.
The one time Adam came with them – a day full of forced smiles from the Doctor and much more touching than usual (which was saying something, really) – Adam managed to get himself tangled up in a local cult and nearly brainwashed. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t make it to that evening’s performance, and he was too embarrassed to talk to Rose for weeks afterward.
Six months on tour didn’t seem like nearly enough; Rose needed a lifetime of this, running from one place to another, always with her fingers intertwined with the Doctor’s.
The show tonight had been their next-to-last; a one-off thing for charity in Cardiff was now the only thing standing between Rose and her normal life.
The Doctor hadn’t made any formal statements to the media on this being his farewell tour and he hadn’t confirmed it to anyone either.
There had been a hen night after a gig somewhere in America weeks ago, for one of the Doctor’s back up singers, a lovely woman named Amy that Rose really should get to know better.
More than a few martinis in, Donna had confessed she didn’t actually know if this was the last tour and didn’t Rose know? If the Doctor was going to tell anyone, it would be Rose, she’d said.
A quick poll of the room, seemingly a group made up of the most important women in the Doctor’s life, proved it — no one knew a damn thing.
And so tonight, climbing into the Doctor’s bus to make the drive to Cardiff by the next morning, Rose felt more than a little anxious.
“What’s all this about then?” The Doctor raised an eyebrow at the way she was fiddling with her shirt, running a finger back and forth over its stripes.
Rose looked up, startled, “Huh?”
He laughed and sat down on the small bench next to her, their legs brushing together, “You’re rubbing at that shirt like it’s going to grant you three wishes.”
She forced herself to stop fiddling, but didn’t speak.
“Well, let’s hear them, Rose Tyler, what would you ask of your magic shirt?”
Was this a trick? It didn’t feel like a trick, it just felt like one of the Doctor’s crazy questions, asked of anyone and anything (the time he’d asked a dog for directions in Sao Paulo was a personal favorite), but she still felt like answering honestly would be a minefield.
“Oh, you know, the usual. Health and happiness for my family and friends, more money than the Queen.”
He made a face when she mentioned money, as if the thought of it hardly ever crossed his mind — and the frequency with which she paid for their chips seemed to indicate it didn’t.
“Bor-ing, and that’s only two, what would the third be? Make it something just for Rose, something you want, not standard genie fare.”
She smiled and knocked her knee into his, but didn’t pull it back, bringing more of their legs into contact, “Sure you don’t want to make it for me? Seems like my initial attempts fell short of your high wishing standards.”
“No, no, no, no, you go ahead,” and he plucked her hand from her lap, running his fingers over the calluses that had only grown deeper as she played on stage every night.
Well, if they were prancing right into a world of imagination and fairy tale, Rose wanted the genie to take her back to the first gig, so she could experience the last six months over again, because they’d been the happiest of her life. Or even better, she’d want a time machine, so she could go back again and again, reliving all of her time with the Doctor on a loop.
Although that would mean living in the status quo. And while the status quo was quite comfortable, shaking things up a bit wouldn’t be a bad idea.
At some point.
Maybe after a bit of a pep talk to herself about courage.
And a few drinks.
Anyway, she still had another twenty-four hours before the Cardiff show and the last hurrah Donna had planned for afterward at a local venue, just for the crew.
“I’d want this tour to keep going,” she said with a decisive nod.
The Doctor flashed a grin, his attention flickering to her mouth, and she realized she’d had her tongue pressed against her top teeth while she was lost in thought. His thumb rubbed circles into her palm and he reached around her with his other arm, leaning back against the side of the bench and settling her against his chest. It was an awkward arrangement – he was too tall, his legs hanging off the edge of the bench and his feet sprawled almost to the kitchette – but she didn’t protest.
“You’d get tired of the road after a while, Rose. Everybody does. They need something different, so they move on,” he said, the words rumbling through his chest and into her ear. She couldn’t see his face from this angle, only his neck and jaw, adam’s apple bobbing as he talked and stubble rough when she leaned forward to nuzzle it with her forehead.
It was a bit easier to concentrate like this, when she didn’t have to look at his face. Easier to say what she meant.
“This kind of life I want, Doctor. This is it.”
Well, almost what she meant.
His adam’s apple bobbed again and she could practically hear it, almost like a gulp, and oh god she’d said the wrong thing.
“What about you, Doctor? What three wishes would you make on my magic shirt?” she said, trying to distract him by walking her middle and index finger up his arm.
“I’d wish for a good night’s sleep,” he replied, clearing his throat loudly. Grabbing the back of the couch for leverage, he lifted them both back up to sit, then hopped to his feet. “You go on, get your beauty rest for tomorrow — there’s going to be a ton of press,” he said, gesturing to the little bunk in the back of the bus. “I’ve got a few things to check over before we arrive. End-of-the-line tour business.”
It was a familiar occurrence — a Doctor-shaped carrot dangling in front of her, only to be yanked away every time she ran for it. She made her way to the back of the bus and settled in. The way they’d been sitting, she could smell him on her, not just the sheets, and she didn’t fall asleep for an hour, the sounds of him plucking at his acoustic guitar playing her out.
The next morning was a blur of regular press, but the last stop of the day was the one she’d been looking forward to most — fan questions. An online form had been set up and questions rolled across a monitor in the sound booth, Donna standing by to point at which ones they weren’t to answer. If she cleared it, it was up to Rose or the Doctor to decide.
They started easy.
What’s in your pockets?
They both answered that one. Rose made a show of digging into the tight pockets of her jeans and pretending not to notice the way the Doctor’s gaze drifted to her bum.
She pulled out a tube of lip balm, a couple of coins, and a small peppermint. Seconds later, when a question scrolled by asking whether the peppermint was because she’d be kissing someone later, Donna didn’t clear it. Rose had been prepared anyway — she loved peppermint — but she didn’t miss the way the Doctor’s eyes skittered from the screen.
The contents of the Doctor’s pockets were more of a mixed bag — a bouncing ball, 16 American nickels, a still-wrapped fortune cookie (crushed into nearly dust), a small rubber mouse, and — a peppermint.
Donna hurried them along.
Rose, love your music, what’s on the chain you wear around your neck?
Shrugging, Donna nodded for it to go ahead and Rose was speaking before she thought better of it, “The ring is my dad’s wedding ring; the key is to the Doctor’s bus.”
His eyes widened and she realized what she’d said, and what it implied, “Because he steals my biscuits. McVitie’s are a hot commodity when you’re in the middle of Florida — guard them with your life.”
The questions zipped by for nearly an hour —where do you get your inspiration? Can you play any other instruments? What’s your favorite food? (“Chips,” in unison) — and it was just the last few minutes where Donna was distracted by the arrival of Jack Harkness that something they’d rather avoid slipped by.
Rose, what’s it like to snog the Doctor?
The media training she’d had with her label, and the practice from hundreds of terrible interviews, kicked in. Her mouth stayed in an easy smile, she didn’t let her eyes widen, but heat spread across the back of her neck and worked its way into her face and dammit she was beet red. She didn’t dare look at the Doctor; she wouldn’t be able to keep her composure, she’d lose it and die of embarrassment, right here on live radio.
A dozen answers to the question flashed through her mind in an instant: Amazing, that bottom lip is just as soft as you’d imagine, and when you suck it into your mouth he makes this sound, a growling groaning sort of sound, but let me tell you about the things he does with his tongue, dear listener, it’s nigh-on miraculous…
Rose laughed, and it didn’t sound too forced, did it? The guys at the sound board didn’t look suspicious, did they?
She opened her mouth, and words came out: “Look who just walked into the studio – the very man who can answer your question! It’s Hark the Shark!”
She hazarded a sideways glance at the Doctor; his cheeks were flushed, his gaze directed anywhere but toward her, and he was rubbing the back of his neck with a vengeance. He barked a laugh, too loud, “Oi! Nobody in this studio has anything to say on that subject, Jack least of all — I give you my word!”
Jack settled into the soundbooth like a hurricane, drowning out any awkwardness that might have been broadcast with his easy charm, and the inquisition was finally over.
On the way back to the arena they sat on opposite ends of the limo, with Donna and Jack and Amy in between. The Doctor had fished a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and he was fiddling with it, popping the top off and clicking it back on, flipping it absently with his fingers as he stared out the window at the streets of Cardiff.
Rose was still flustered, and if she had to talk too much she’d probably burst into tears because with every minute’s passing she could only think of the fact that she wouldn’t be here with him every day anymore, that the Doctor was going to go back to his same old life, probably touring alone; her mum was going to bundle her off to the next step in her career as soon as she arrived home; and the best thing that had ever happened to her was about to be over.
The limo was full of the others’ laughter and banter, and no one noticed how quiet the two of them were, or how they didn’t look at each other when everyone piled out of the limo and headed off to their own separate dressing rooms.
Sound check was still a few hours away yet, and she’d heard they filmed some of her favorite shows in Cardiff. She was looking forward to breaking into one of the lots with the Doctor, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen.
A glimpse into the making of that sitcom with the two private investigators in love would have to wait. (It was probably for the best, that set was bound to be filled with sexual tension and she had enough of that on her own, thanks.)
Instead she picked up her guitar, slipping into Ian Dury like her favorite jumper. She wasn’t in the mood for comfort though, she was in the mood for angst, and she strummed through some Bright Eyes. Lover she didn’t have to love indeed.
It was two hours later and she was just trying to decide between The Buzzcocks and The Clash (they both had their merits, but she was altogether more on the level with Pete Shelley over Joe Strummer, at this point) when Donna knocked on her open door.
“He’s being a prat,” Donna said by way of greeting.
“Oh, I’m aware,” and Rose filled the room with the sounds of ‘Ever Fallen in Love’ for a few moments before Donna stilled her hand on the guitar.
“You can call him on it, you know, he won’t break,” she said.
Rose sighed, “No, but he’ll sulk for hours, or leave the room, or change the subject, or light the bowl of jelly babies backstage on fire.”
Donna’s eyebrows raised, “I KNEW it was him! Spontaneous combustion because the tour rider wasn’t followed my arse.”
Rose laughed, “Oh, yeah, forgot I wasn’t supposed to mention that. What happens to all the orange ones he makes the venue remove?”
Donna started to answer and then narrowed her eyes, “You’ve been picking up bad habits. Distract, distract, you two. How does anything ever bloody get said?”
“It doesn’t, and now it’s the last stop, and your best mate will be lucky if I don’t slap him again before the night is out,” Rose felt some of the tension leave her body, it was nice to have someone to talk to about all this.
“You slapped him? And you’re still here?” Donna’s mouth stayed open, slack in amazement.
Rose shrugged and checked the clock, “Listen, I’ve got to go to sound check. If you go see him after this, please don’t tell him anything.”
Obviously Donna was not going to listen.
It was only ten minutes later that the Doctor was storming the stage as Rose called out instructions to the technical crew.
“What did you say to Donna?” he seethed under his breath, squinting as the lights came up.
“Everyone knows you’re a child, and it’s no surprise she figured out you were the one who set the jelly-babies on fire because you were bored,” Rose snapped at him, because really he was doing this here and now? She was just about in the mood to have it out in front of every last member of the sound crew – for all she cared they could pull out their bloody cameraphones and post it to the internet, the Doctor being a cowardly arse for all the world to see.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” The frown on his face shifted, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “You told her about the jelly-babies, too?”
Rose rounded on him, hands on her hips, and met his angry glare with one of her own. “What exactly do you think I told her? The gates open in ten minutes, we’re on in fifty, and I’m not in the mood to play twenty questions with you, Doctor.”
He glanced at the stage-hands hustling around them, at a few who were lingering a bit too close and checking the same wires for the fifth time, and shook his head. He was getting more agitated by the second, rocking back and forth from his toes to his heels, rubbing the back of his neck and shoving his fingers into his hair as though he wanted to rip it out.
“I can’t perform like this. I can’t focus, how am I supposed to concentrate when…” He stopped, a frantic gleam in his brown eyes, as though he wanted to pick something up and throw it. If there had been a guitar in proximity he might well have gone into a full-on stereotypical rock-star fit and smashed it. That would be a video worth posting. Rose might’ve even done it herself.
“This is all about you, isn’t it?” Rose hissed. “Always has been. Is that what Donna told you? That you’re being a selfish bastard?”
That brought him up short. The frantic gleam was still there, but his body grew completely still and he stared at her, his fingers twitching down by his hips and his face flashing through a range of emotions so fast Rose could hardly read them — hurt, frustration, sadness – all of it playing across his features within seconds.
“Break a leg, Rose,” he finally said, turning on the heel of his Chucks and strutting offstage, shoulders hunched as he jammed his hands into his pockets.
There was a split second where she thought about chasing after him and she curled her toes inside her shoes to stop the movement. She had her own performance to focus on. If he was going to be a shit, she could be, too.
With a wave to the crew, she exited the stage to the opposite side.
By the time she was back on it an hour later, her anger had cooled — this was the last performance she’d give by herself on this tour. It might be the last performance she gave atall on the tour, depending on how much the Doctor’s own emotions had settled.
She smoothed a hand down the fabric of her dress, green and smooth and shiny, but she actually liked this one — she felt like herself, sang her head off, and the audience noticed.
Walking off a stage to a roaring crowd was one of the best feelings in the world, and she practically skipped into the wings, nearly running headfirst into the Doctor.
He pulled her in between the two stage curtains, cutting them off from the crew, and muffling the noise of the crowd.
“Fantastic show, Rose,” he gave her a tentative smile.
She could push beyond this for now, she had to push beyond it.
“Thanks, it’s a great crowd tonight, they’re going to love you.”
The Doctor rubbed at the back of his neck, “Well, the thing is, they already love you, and —”
He trailed off, moving to rummage a hand around inside his suit. He pulled it back out (how deep were his pockets exactly, it looked like he’d been up to his elbow) and thrust a piece of crumpled paper at her.
“What’s this?”
She looked down at it and saw the slanted letters of his handwriting — oh my god, they were song titles. A mix of their favorite covers, and more than a few of their original songs, songs no one had heard but them.
“It’s tonight’s set list,” he said it without a trace of panic, his voice strong and clear. “And after that, it’s my next album,” he shrugged. “If you want.”
Rose grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him down into a hug so tight his laugh turned into a wheeze in her ear.
She pulled back and caught his eye, trying to see if this meant what she thought it meant. But then Adam was sticking his head around the curtain.
“You guys coming? Rose, I heard you’re doing the whole set with us, that’s — that’s great. “
She raised her eyebrows at the Doctor, smirking at his apparent confidence that she’d agree.
He grinned back, “Oi! Come on, you two! We’ve got a show to do!”
Rose felt 40 feet tall walking out onto the stage, and she still hadn’t shrunk back down by time they’d played their last encore, Donna giving them an enthusiastic double thumbs up from the wings.
The audience was still chanting for another encore in the front of house, but behind the scenes the crew poured out the doors like sailors abandoning ship, everyone in a rush for the hired cars heading to the wrap party. Donna had organized everything at a local pub, rented out the entire place for the evening.
Martha grabbed Rose in the melee, pulling her along with a hail of congratulatory chatter. Rose clung to Martha’s arm, letting herself be led outside, still reeling from everything that had happened during her set onstage. She was more than a little grateful for a breath of fresh of air before she saw the Doctor again.
The Doctor had always sung with her like he meant it; he was a consummate professional when it came to his music, it was his job to act like he believed the words coming out of his mouth. Buttonight –Rose shivered as she remembered the look on the Doctor’s face, the intense focus in his gaze, as he crooned the lyrics they’d written together. They might as well have been alone instead of onstage in front of tens of thousands of people.
“Are you all right?” Martha asked, snatching her hand as they settled together into the backseat of one of the hired cars. “You’re shaking like a leaf!”
“I’m fine,” Rose gasped, clutching Martha’s hand, grateful for the steadying influence. “Just excited. Relieved. Can’t believe it’s all over.”
Martha beamed at her – she was talking, leaning her head on Rose’s shoulder and hugging her like a sister. Rose hugged back, letting Martha chatter away.
In truth, Rose was shaking because during the last song of their set, the Doctor had actually taken his guitar off – like stripping away a layer of armor, while he belted out the lyrics of the first song they’d written together. He’d yanked off his tie, tossing it into the audience, and she almost forgot her part of the duet at that point because he’d strutted over to her side of the stage and put his arm around her. She’d shifted her guitar out of the way and they were dancing –dancing – in front of everyone, hips rolling together to the beat as a thousand camera flashes lit up the audience. His grin had been manic and unabashed and Rose had hardly been able to finish the song, she was so breathless.
By the time the car arrived at the pub, Rose managed to get her thoughts in check, and when they walked inside and she spotted the Doctor at the bar with a pint, chatting with Adam, she didn’t hesitate to join them.
Adam was apparently in the middle of a long story, something about elective surgery, it sounded like, but Rose didn’t care to catch up. She wedged herself onto the side of the Doctor opposite Adam, smiling as he shifted over to give her part of his stool before she could climb onto her own.
With the movement, her dress rode up higher on her thighs than would be decent for the public, but it was practically family here tonight. And the way the Doctor had stopped even trying to pretend he was listening to Adam, instead focusing on the skin of Rose’s legs, was thrilling.
He flagged the bartender down, ordering her a glass of the champagne that seemed to be everywhere. When it was delivered a few moments later, the Doctor took a long sip from the glass, before handing it over to Rose with a devastating look.
She finished the glass in three sips, eyes locked on his the entire time, the warmth from the drink hitting her blood immediately, rushing to fill every part of her.
Adam said loudly, “I’ll just be going then,” but Rose didn’t even look up. The Doctor shifted her bodily by the hips, pulling her to stand and pinning her between the bar and him, his legs on either side of her.
“Feeling bold tonight, Doctor?” She snaked her tongue out to the corner of her mouth, delighting as it had the intended reaction and the Doctor moved closer on the stool.
“Something like that,” he said, voice low and full of promise.
Promises she wanted him to keep, promises she had to ask after, even if the way his knees were pressing into her hips was incredibly distracting.
“Is this just end-of-the-road madness? It’s the last day of school, let’s throw caution to the wind?”
His head pulled back at that, “Is that what it feels like?”
Before she could answer, he spoke again, “Rose, how long are you going to stay with me?”
She answered without hesitation, “Forever.”
He smiled a much softer smile than she’d ever seen, fondness and joy and — love.
“You know,” his smile grew wider, “Donna’s been keeping people out of that back room since we got here. Rock stars only, she said.”
Rose ran her hands up his thighs, stopping just short of a point she couldn’t turn back from, teasing him with her words, “Rock stars? Oh, do you know any?”
He stood suddenly, grabbing her hands and hauling her toward the back room, whistles and claps echoing behind them.
While the Doctor closed the door, cheers still audible from the bar, Rose skittered to the other side of the private room, putting an ancient, pitted oak table between them. Because this was … exactly what it looked like from the cheap seats outside.
Except Rose needed it not to be that, no matter the forever she’d promised a few seconds ago.
Because the Doctor hadn’t promised anything, really.
He was glorious and familiar, sweaty from their performance just like she was, his hair damp. He shucked his pinstriped jacket, letting it fall to the floor as he stepped up to the opposite side of the table. He had on his incorrigible grin, the one she’d seen dozens of times when they were stuck in an impossible situation, except the expression in his eyes this time – he’d thrown whatever reservations he had to the wind, and he was exercising an incredible amount of self-restraint, not throwing himself across the expanse of oak and ripping off her already skimpy green dress right then and there.
“Rose,” he breathed, and it was like someone had thrown her into a hot spring, her entire body lit afire.
“Say it,” she demanded, secretly pleased at how calm she sounded. She refused to get lost in his gleaming brown eyes, or the smile that illuminated every single feature on his face. “I promised you forever. So say it.”
The corners of his mouth leveled out and he straightened from where he’d been leaning across the table. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Surely you know. I thought it’d be obvious. Tonight, I tried, with the set list and the performance, and when we –”
“Doctor, I just need…” she interrupted, and the vulnerability in his eyes took her breath away. He was expressing it in every way he knew how – with his career and his bravado in front of an audience, and she dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to get hold of herself. He was still wearing his shirtsleeves, but he might as well have been naked in front of her. “I just … need to hear it, okay?”
He straightened to his full height, skinny and gorgeous and ridiculous as he was, his fingers grasping the fabric of his pinstriped pants in helpless panic. But he said the words anyway: “Rose Tyler, I love you.”
Rose laughed in delight – it was inappropriate, really, she should be serious, he’d bared his soul for her sake, because she’d asked – but she was crawling across the table, reaching for the back of his neck with one hand as she knocked a few half-empty glasses of bitter aside with the other.
“Say it again,” she gasped.
“Rose Tyler, I love you,” he replied, sweeping her into his arms, his body solid and his grip so firm she could hardly manage to get her next words out.
“Doctor, I love you, too,” she said, her lips already opening against his.
She felt his tongue snake out almost instantly and she pulled away, moving so she could get her feet out from under her.
He staggered back, eyes hurt and hands clenched.
The sight of him so open and vulnerable gripped low in her stomach and she smiled at him, “Just getting my legs back — if you run, I’m chasing you.”
She watched the tension drop out of him, “No running, not from you. Not anymore.”
She smiled, licking her lips and looking him up and down, “Really? Not even if I do this?”
She pulled at a strap of her dress, sliding it down her shoulder and slipping her arm free.
“Absolutely not,” he said, his voice rough in a way that shot straight through her.
Rose nodded, “Good, good. And this?”
She slipped the other strap off the same way, moving her free arm up to keep the dress from tumbling to her waist.
“Oh, maybe for that,” but his eyes were focused on the top of her chest, the line where her skin met the smooth fabric.
She smiled at him, wide and happy and more than a little turned on, “And where would you be running to?”
He looked at her like she’d just dribbled on herself, but his eyes were sparkling, “To make sure the door was locked, of course.”
But he didn’t run there, instead he backed up slowly, hand groping behind him until he found the handle, clicking it locked with his thumb.
There was space, too much space, between them, and the room was still enveloped in heat. She could feel her heart under the arm across her chest, the pulse of it thumping wildly. She told him so and he grinned, pressing a hand to his own heart.
“Oh, I’m beating out a samba over here.”
She moved back on the table, her feet dangling a few inches above the ground, “Yeah? You gonna show me some of those moves?”
He made a noise like a growl and a hiss, “Rose Tyler, I’m going to show you all of them,” and he was hurtling across the room, a blur of blue and brown and Doctor.
Stopping between her legs, hands braced on the table on either side of her hips, he pulled up short with his mouth a few inches from her own.
“That’s it then? That’s your big move?” She leaned forward and nudged her nose against his.
He smiled, a sexy, silly thing that branched out in her veins like lightning, “You like it.”
She moved her mouth to his, her words ghosting between them, “I love it.”
And then his lips were on hers, hands framing her face and she couldn’t pull away this time, not that she wanted to. His tongue slid confidently into her mouth, stroking against her own and she let go of her dress to wind her arms around his neck and into his hair.
God, he had great hair.
Her dress stayed up only as long as his chest was pressed to hers and he figured it out the same time she did, smiling wickedly against her mouth as he arched his torso away from her. The dress fell to her waist and everything else toppled behind it.
It was a rushed series of moments — his shirt unbuttoned halfway before she moved to palm the front of his trousers, his hands under her bum as he lifted her enough to shimmy the bottom half of her dress up to meet the top, and the noises — the noises. Words and groans and yelps and he really didn’t shut his gob for anything, did he?
Everything shifting, sliding, moving, and there, and when it was done, the Doctor was leaning his forehead to hers, grins like boomerangs between them.
They wouldn’t find out for weeks to come, but somewhere on the other side of the door, Donna Noble was sending an e-mail, agreeing to another tour to support their upcoming album.
co-author: gallifreyburning!
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10/Rose, ROCK BAND AU.
rating: PG-13, this part.
words: 5,847, this part; 16,867, total.
notes: This was written by gallifreyburning and allrightfine (that's me!), in a "fic tennis" style, where we take turns with the story. (The prompt photo is under the cut, but for a version with the breakdown of who wrote what, you can read it on Tumblr here, too!)
summary/intro: An alternate universe where the Doctor is a rock star, and Rose Tyler is his most recent opening act. Kissing, farewell tour angst, and just about everyone and everything we could fit in from new (and old!) Who.
previous sections: part 1. part 2.
As Rose suspected might happen, the Doctor didn’t kiss her again, and he certainly didn’t ever mention the incident aloud.
Neither did she.
As Rose suspected might happen, the Doctor didn’t kiss her again, and he certainly didn’t ever mention the incident aloud.
Neither did she.
It wasn’t as though it had never happened – simply as though they’d tucked it away beneath layers of hugs and hand-holding and something-more-than-friendship. Regardless, the incident had opened a door between them; they’d both put their cards on the table, admitted how much they needed each other, and after that they were the Doctor and Rose, inexorable and inextricable.
Their connection was, to put it mildly, noticed. The gossip rags labeled Rose as the Doctor’s new “Companion” so fast, Jackie called her up two days later shrieking that she shouldn’t let her ovaries do her thinking because she had an image to maintain, and “are you using protection, because lord only knows how many diseases that man’s carrying”—“Muuuum, it isn’t like that, really!”
Their chemistry on-stage was undeniable, and at each stop thousands of camera-phones and music columnists took note as they harmonized during their duets. If Rose had the self-control to pretend she was singing to anyone but the Doctor when she belted out lyrics about love and completion, she wasn’t inclined to exercise it.
He didn’t seem to be, either.
But neither of them said anything of the sort outside of these moments onstage, eyes locked and guitars between them.
When Donna pulled Rose aside one day, two months after the incident at the pool, and asked, “Are you and he…?” Rose could only stare back at her and shrug a little.
When they weren’t on-stage, they dove right into the local culture. Each day was a different adventure (or misadventure), sometimes with Donna or Martha or Wilf or any number of the people that Rose had come to feel were her extended family, but always the Doctor and Rose together.
Once, the Doctor and Rose and Martha got tangled up at a hospital in Prague that was put on lockdown, and spent an entire day trying to get out in time for that night’s performance.
Another day, with Donna, they found themselves in the thick of a local labor uprising, and without them the workers in the main factory of Budesti, Moldovia would still be in virtual slavery.
The one time Adam came with them – a day full of forced smiles from the Doctor and much more touching than usual (which was saying something, really) – Adam managed to get himself tangled up in a local cult and nearly brainwashed. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t make it to that evening’s performance, and he was too embarrassed to talk to Rose for weeks afterward.
Six months on tour didn’t seem like nearly enough; Rose needed a lifetime of this, running from one place to another, always with her fingers intertwined with the Doctor’s.
The show tonight had been their next-to-last; a one-off thing for charity in Cardiff was now the only thing standing between Rose and her normal life.
The Doctor hadn’t made any formal statements to the media on this being his farewell tour and he hadn’t confirmed it to anyone either.
There had been a hen night after a gig somewhere in America weeks ago, for one of the Doctor’s back up singers, a lovely woman named Amy that Rose really should get to know better.
More than a few martinis in, Donna had confessed she didn’t actually know if this was the last tour and didn’t Rose know? If the Doctor was going to tell anyone, it would be Rose, she’d said.
A quick poll of the room, seemingly a group made up of the most important women in the Doctor’s life, proved it — no one knew a damn thing.
And so tonight, climbing into the Doctor’s bus to make the drive to Cardiff by the next morning, Rose felt more than a little anxious.
“What’s all this about then?” The Doctor raised an eyebrow at the way she was fiddling with her shirt, running a finger back and forth over its stripes.
Rose looked up, startled, “Huh?”
He laughed and sat down on the small bench next to her, their legs brushing together, “You’re rubbing at that shirt like it’s going to grant you three wishes.”
She forced herself to stop fiddling, but didn’t speak.
“Well, let’s hear them, Rose Tyler, what would you ask of your magic shirt?”
Was this a trick? It didn’t feel like a trick, it just felt like one of the Doctor’s crazy questions, asked of anyone and anything (the time he’d asked a dog for directions in Sao Paulo was a personal favorite), but she still felt like answering honestly would be a minefield.
“Oh, you know, the usual. Health and happiness for my family and friends, more money than the Queen.”
He made a face when she mentioned money, as if the thought of it hardly ever crossed his mind — and the frequency with which she paid for their chips seemed to indicate it didn’t.
“Bor-ing, and that’s only two, what would the third be? Make it something just for Rose, something you want, not standard genie fare.”
She smiled and knocked her knee into his, but didn’t pull it back, bringing more of their legs into contact, “Sure you don’t want to make it for me? Seems like my initial attempts fell short of your high wishing standards.”
“No, no, no, no, you go ahead,” and he plucked her hand from her lap, running his fingers over the calluses that had only grown deeper as she played on stage every night.
Well, if they were prancing right into a world of imagination and fairy tale, Rose wanted the genie to take her back to the first gig, so she could experience the last six months over again, because they’d been the happiest of her life. Or even better, she’d want a time machine, so she could go back again and again, reliving all of her time with the Doctor on a loop.
Although that would mean living in the status quo. And while the status quo was quite comfortable, shaking things up a bit wouldn’t be a bad idea.
At some point.
Maybe after a bit of a pep talk to herself about courage.
And a few drinks.
Anyway, she still had another twenty-four hours before the Cardiff show and the last hurrah Donna had planned for afterward at a local venue, just for the crew.
“I’d want this tour to keep going,” she said with a decisive nod.
The Doctor flashed a grin, his attention flickering to her mouth, and she realized she’d had her tongue pressed against her top teeth while she was lost in thought. His thumb rubbed circles into her palm and he reached around her with his other arm, leaning back against the side of the bench and settling her against his chest. It was an awkward arrangement – he was too tall, his legs hanging off the edge of the bench and his feet sprawled almost to the kitchette – but she didn’t protest.
“You’d get tired of the road after a while, Rose. Everybody does. They need something different, so they move on,” he said, the words rumbling through his chest and into her ear. She couldn’t see his face from this angle, only his neck and jaw, adam’s apple bobbing as he talked and stubble rough when she leaned forward to nuzzle it with her forehead.
It was a bit easier to concentrate like this, when she didn’t have to look at his face. Easier to say what she meant.
“This kind of life I want, Doctor. This is it.”
Well, almost what she meant.
His adam’s apple bobbed again and she could practically hear it, almost like a gulp, and oh god she’d said the wrong thing.
“What about you, Doctor? What three wishes would you make on my magic shirt?” she said, trying to distract him by walking her middle and index finger up his arm.
“I’d wish for a good night’s sleep,” he replied, clearing his throat loudly. Grabbing the back of the couch for leverage, he lifted them both back up to sit, then hopped to his feet. “You go on, get your beauty rest for tomorrow — there’s going to be a ton of press,” he said, gesturing to the little bunk in the back of the bus. “I’ve got a few things to check over before we arrive. End-of-the-line tour business.”
It was a familiar occurrence — a Doctor-shaped carrot dangling in front of her, only to be yanked away every time she ran for it. She made her way to the back of the bus and settled in. The way they’d been sitting, she could smell him on her, not just the sheets, and she didn’t fall asleep for an hour, the sounds of him plucking at his acoustic guitar playing her out.
The next morning was a blur of regular press, but the last stop of the day was the one she’d been looking forward to most — fan questions. An online form had been set up and questions rolled across a monitor in the sound booth, Donna standing by to point at which ones they weren’t to answer. If she cleared it, it was up to Rose or the Doctor to decide.
They started easy.
What’s in your pockets?
They both answered that one. Rose made a show of digging into the tight pockets of her jeans and pretending not to notice the way the Doctor’s gaze drifted to her bum.
She pulled out a tube of lip balm, a couple of coins, and a small peppermint. Seconds later, when a question scrolled by asking whether the peppermint was because she’d be kissing someone later, Donna didn’t clear it. Rose had been prepared anyway — she loved peppermint — but she didn’t miss the way the Doctor’s eyes skittered from the screen.
The contents of the Doctor’s pockets were more of a mixed bag — a bouncing ball, 16 American nickels, a still-wrapped fortune cookie (crushed into nearly dust), a small rubber mouse, and — a peppermint.
Donna hurried them along.
Rose, love your music, what’s on the chain you wear around your neck?
Shrugging, Donna nodded for it to go ahead and Rose was speaking before she thought better of it, “The ring is my dad’s wedding ring; the key is to the Doctor’s bus.”
His eyes widened and she realized what she’d said, and what it implied, “Because he steals my biscuits. McVitie’s are a hot commodity when you’re in the middle of Florida — guard them with your life.”
The questions zipped by for nearly an hour —where do you get your inspiration? Can you play any other instruments? What’s your favorite food? (“Chips,” in unison) — and it was just the last few minutes where Donna was distracted by the arrival of Jack Harkness that something they’d rather avoid slipped by.
Rose, what’s it like to snog the Doctor?
The media training she’d had with her label, and the practice from hundreds of terrible interviews, kicked in. Her mouth stayed in an easy smile, she didn’t let her eyes widen, but heat spread across the back of her neck and worked its way into her face and dammit she was beet red. She didn’t dare look at the Doctor; she wouldn’t be able to keep her composure, she’d lose it and die of embarrassment, right here on live radio.
A dozen answers to the question flashed through her mind in an instant: Amazing, that bottom lip is just as soft as you’d imagine, and when you suck it into your mouth he makes this sound, a growling groaning sort of sound, but let me tell you about the things he does with his tongue, dear listener, it’s nigh-on miraculous…
Rose laughed, and it didn’t sound too forced, did it? The guys at the sound board didn’t look suspicious, did they?
She opened her mouth, and words came out: “Look who just walked into the studio – the very man who can answer your question! It’s Hark the Shark!”
She hazarded a sideways glance at the Doctor; his cheeks were flushed, his gaze directed anywhere but toward her, and he was rubbing the back of his neck with a vengeance. He barked a laugh, too loud, “Oi! Nobody in this studio has anything to say on that subject, Jack least of all — I give you my word!”
Jack settled into the soundbooth like a hurricane, drowning out any awkwardness that might have been broadcast with his easy charm, and the inquisition was finally over.
On the way back to the arena they sat on opposite ends of the limo, with Donna and Jack and Amy in between. The Doctor had fished a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and he was fiddling with it, popping the top off and clicking it back on, flipping it absently with his fingers as he stared out the window at the streets of Cardiff.
Rose was still flustered, and if she had to talk too much she’d probably burst into tears because with every minute’s passing she could only think of the fact that she wouldn’t be here with him every day anymore, that the Doctor was going to go back to his same old life, probably touring alone; her mum was going to bundle her off to the next step in her career as soon as she arrived home; and the best thing that had ever happened to her was about to be over.
The limo was full of the others’ laughter and banter, and no one noticed how quiet the two of them were, or how they didn’t look at each other when everyone piled out of the limo and headed off to their own separate dressing rooms.
Sound check was still a few hours away yet, and she’d heard they filmed some of her favorite shows in Cardiff. She was looking forward to breaking into one of the lots with the Doctor, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen.
A glimpse into the making of that sitcom with the two private investigators in love would have to wait. (It was probably for the best, that set was bound to be filled with sexual tension and she had enough of that on her own, thanks.)
Instead she picked up her guitar, slipping into Ian Dury like her favorite jumper. She wasn’t in the mood for comfort though, she was in the mood for angst, and she strummed through some Bright Eyes. Lover she didn’t have to love indeed.
It was two hours later and she was just trying to decide between The Buzzcocks and The Clash (they both had their merits, but she was altogether more on the level with Pete Shelley over Joe Strummer, at this point) when Donna knocked on her open door.
“He’s being a prat,” Donna said by way of greeting.
“Oh, I’m aware,” and Rose filled the room with the sounds of ‘Ever Fallen in Love’ for a few moments before Donna stilled her hand on the guitar.
“You can call him on it, you know, he won’t break,” she said.
Rose sighed, “No, but he’ll sulk for hours, or leave the room, or change the subject, or light the bowl of jelly babies backstage on fire.”
Donna’s eyebrows raised, “I KNEW it was him! Spontaneous combustion because the tour rider wasn’t followed my arse.”
Rose laughed, “Oh, yeah, forgot I wasn’t supposed to mention that. What happens to all the orange ones he makes the venue remove?”
Donna started to answer and then narrowed her eyes, “You’ve been picking up bad habits. Distract, distract, you two. How does anything ever bloody get said?”
“It doesn’t, and now it’s the last stop, and your best mate will be lucky if I don’t slap him again before the night is out,” Rose felt some of the tension leave her body, it was nice to have someone to talk to about all this.
“You slapped him? And you’re still here?” Donna’s mouth stayed open, slack in amazement.
Rose shrugged and checked the clock, “Listen, I’ve got to go to sound check. If you go see him after this, please don’t tell him anything.”
Obviously Donna was not going to listen.
It was only ten minutes later that the Doctor was storming the stage as Rose called out instructions to the technical crew.
“What did you say to Donna?” he seethed under his breath, squinting as the lights came up.
“Everyone knows you’re a child, and it’s no surprise she figured out you were the one who set the jelly-babies on fire because you were bored,” Rose snapped at him, because really he was doing this here and now? She was just about in the mood to have it out in front of every last member of the sound crew – for all she cared they could pull out their bloody cameraphones and post it to the internet, the Doctor being a cowardly arse for all the world to see.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” The frown on his face shifted, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “You told her about the jelly-babies, too?”
Rose rounded on him, hands on her hips, and met his angry glare with one of her own. “What exactly do you think I told her? The gates open in ten minutes, we’re on in fifty, and I’m not in the mood to play twenty questions with you, Doctor.”
He glanced at the stage-hands hustling around them, at a few who were lingering a bit too close and checking the same wires for the fifth time, and shook his head. He was getting more agitated by the second, rocking back and forth from his toes to his heels, rubbing the back of his neck and shoving his fingers into his hair as though he wanted to rip it out.
“I can’t perform like this. I can’t focus, how am I supposed to concentrate when…” He stopped, a frantic gleam in his brown eyes, as though he wanted to pick something up and throw it. If there had been a guitar in proximity he might well have gone into a full-on stereotypical rock-star fit and smashed it. That would be a video worth posting. Rose might’ve even done it herself.
“This is all about you, isn’t it?” Rose hissed. “Always has been. Is that what Donna told you? That you’re being a selfish bastard?”
That brought him up short. The frantic gleam was still there, but his body grew completely still and he stared at her, his fingers twitching down by his hips and his face flashing through a range of emotions so fast Rose could hardly read them — hurt, frustration, sadness – all of it playing across his features within seconds.
“Break a leg, Rose,” he finally said, turning on the heel of his Chucks and strutting offstage, shoulders hunched as he jammed his hands into his pockets.
There was a split second where she thought about chasing after him and she curled her toes inside her shoes to stop the movement. She had her own performance to focus on. If he was going to be a shit, she could be, too.
With a wave to the crew, she exited the stage to the opposite side.
By the time she was back on it an hour later, her anger had cooled — this was the last performance she’d give by herself on this tour. It might be the last performance she gave atall on the tour, depending on how much the Doctor’s own emotions had settled.
She smoothed a hand down the fabric of her dress, green and smooth and shiny, but she actually liked this one — she felt like herself, sang her head off, and the audience noticed.
Walking off a stage to a roaring crowd was one of the best feelings in the world, and she practically skipped into the wings, nearly running headfirst into the Doctor.
He pulled her in between the two stage curtains, cutting them off from the crew, and muffling the noise of the crowd.
“Fantastic show, Rose,” he gave her a tentative smile.
She could push beyond this for now, she had to push beyond it.
“Thanks, it’s a great crowd tonight, they’re going to love you.”
The Doctor rubbed at the back of his neck, “Well, the thing is, they already love you, and —”
He trailed off, moving to rummage a hand around inside his suit. He pulled it back out (how deep were his pockets exactly, it looked like he’d been up to his elbow) and thrust a piece of crumpled paper at her.
“What’s this?”
She looked down at it and saw the slanted letters of his handwriting — oh my god, they were song titles. A mix of their favorite covers, and more than a few of their original songs, songs no one had heard but them.
“It’s tonight’s set list,” he said it without a trace of panic, his voice strong and clear. “And after that, it’s my next album,” he shrugged. “If you want.”
Rose grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him down into a hug so tight his laugh turned into a wheeze in her ear.
She pulled back and caught his eye, trying to see if this meant what she thought it meant. But then Adam was sticking his head around the curtain.
“You guys coming? Rose, I heard you’re doing the whole set with us, that’s — that’s great. “
She raised her eyebrows at the Doctor, smirking at his apparent confidence that she’d agree.
He grinned back, “Oi! Come on, you two! We’ve got a show to do!”
Rose felt 40 feet tall walking out onto the stage, and she still hadn’t shrunk back down by time they’d played their last encore, Donna giving them an enthusiastic double thumbs up from the wings.
The audience was still chanting for another encore in the front of house, but behind the scenes the crew poured out the doors like sailors abandoning ship, everyone in a rush for the hired cars heading to the wrap party. Donna had organized everything at a local pub, rented out the entire place for the evening.
Martha grabbed Rose in the melee, pulling her along with a hail of congratulatory chatter. Rose clung to Martha’s arm, letting herself be led outside, still reeling from everything that had happened during her set onstage. She was more than a little grateful for a breath of fresh of air before she saw the Doctor again.
The Doctor had always sung with her like he meant it; he was a consummate professional when it came to his music, it was his job to act like he believed the words coming out of his mouth. Buttonight –Rose shivered as she remembered the look on the Doctor’s face, the intense focus in his gaze, as he crooned the lyrics they’d written together. They might as well have been alone instead of onstage in front of tens of thousands of people.
“Are you all right?” Martha asked, snatching her hand as they settled together into the backseat of one of the hired cars. “You’re shaking like a leaf!”
“I’m fine,” Rose gasped, clutching Martha’s hand, grateful for the steadying influence. “Just excited. Relieved. Can’t believe it’s all over.”
Martha beamed at her – she was talking, leaning her head on Rose’s shoulder and hugging her like a sister. Rose hugged back, letting Martha chatter away.
In truth, Rose was shaking because during the last song of their set, the Doctor had actually taken his guitar off – like stripping away a layer of armor, while he belted out the lyrics of the first song they’d written together. He’d yanked off his tie, tossing it into the audience, and she almost forgot her part of the duet at that point because he’d strutted over to her side of the stage and put his arm around her. She’d shifted her guitar out of the way and they were dancing –dancing – in front of everyone, hips rolling together to the beat as a thousand camera flashes lit up the audience. His grin had been manic and unabashed and Rose had hardly been able to finish the song, she was so breathless.
By the time the car arrived at the pub, Rose managed to get her thoughts in check, and when they walked inside and she spotted the Doctor at the bar with a pint, chatting with Adam, she didn’t hesitate to join them.
Adam was apparently in the middle of a long story, something about elective surgery, it sounded like, but Rose didn’t care to catch up. She wedged herself onto the side of the Doctor opposite Adam, smiling as he shifted over to give her part of his stool before she could climb onto her own.
With the movement, her dress rode up higher on her thighs than would be decent for the public, but it was practically family here tonight. And the way the Doctor had stopped even trying to pretend he was listening to Adam, instead focusing on the skin of Rose’s legs, was thrilling.
He flagged the bartender down, ordering her a glass of the champagne that seemed to be everywhere. When it was delivered a few moments later, the Doctor took a long sip from the glass, before handing it over to Rose with a devastating look.
She finished the glass in three sips, eyes locked on his the entire time, the warmth from the drink hitting her blood immediately, rushing to fill every part of her.
Adam said loudly, “I’ll just be going then,” but Rose didn’t even look up. The Doctor shifted her bodily by the hips, pulling her to stand and pinning her between the bar and him, his legs on either side of her.
“Feeling bold tonight, Doctor?” She snaked her tongue out to the corner of her mouth, delighting as it had the intended reaction and the Doctor moved closer on the stool.
“Something like that,” he said, voice low and full of promise.
Promises she wanted him to keep, promises she had to ask after, even if the way his knees were pressing into her hips was incredibly distracting.
“Is this just end-of-the-road madness? It’s the last day of school, let’s throw caution to the wind?”
His head pulled back at that, “Is that what it feels like?”
Before she could answer, he spoke again, “Rose, how long are you going to stay with me?”
She answered without hesitation, “Forever.”
He smiled a much softer smile than she’d ever seen, fondness and joy and — love.
“You know,” his smile grew wider, “Donna’s been keeping people out of that back room since we got here. Rock stars only, she said.”
Rose ran her hands up his thighs, stopping just short of a point she couldn’t turn back from, teasing him with her words, “Rock stars? Oh, do you know any?”
He stood suddenly, grabbing her hands and hauling her toward the back room, whistles and claps echoing behind them.
While the Doctor closed the door, cheers still audible from the bar, Rose skittered to the other side of the private room, putting an ancient, pitted oak table between them. Because this was … exactly what it looked like from the cheap seats outside.
Except Rose needed it not to be that, no matter the forever she’d promised a few seconds ago.
Because the Doctor hadn’t promised anything, really.
He was glorious and familiar, sweaty from their performance just like she was, his hair damp. He shucked his pinstriped jacket, letting it fall to the floor as he stepped up to the opposite side of the table. He had on his incorrigible grin, the one she’d seen dozens of times when they were stuck in an impossible situation, except the expression in his eyes this time – he’d thrown whatever reservations he had to the wind, and he was exercising an incredible amount of self-restraint, not throwing himself across the expanse of oak and ripping off her already skimpy green dress right then and there.
“Rose,” he breathed, and it was like someone had thrown her into a hot spring, her entire body lit afire.
“Say it,” she demanded, secretly pleased at how calm she sounded. She refused to get lost in his gleaming brown eyes, or the smile that illuminated every single feature on his face. “I promised you forever. So say it.”
The corners of his mouth leveled out and he straightened from where he’d been leaning across the table. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Surely you know. I thought it’d be obvious. Tonight, I tried, with the set list and the performance, and when we –”
“Doctor, I just need…” she interrupted, and the vulnerability in his eyes took her breath away. He was expressing it in every way he knew how – with his career and his bravado in front of an audience, and she dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to get hold of herself. He was still wearing his shirtsleeves, but he might as well have been naked in front of her. “I just … need to hear it, okay?”
He straightened to his full height, skinny and gorgeous and ridiculous as he was, his fingers grasping the fabric of his pinstriped pants in helpless panic. But he said the words anyway: “Rose Tyler, I love you.”
Rose laughed in delight – it was inappropriate, really, she should be serious, he’d bared his soul for her sake, because she’d asked – but she was crawling across the table, reaching for the back of his neck with one hand as she knocked a few half-empty glasses of bitter aside with the other.
“Say it again,” she gasped.
“Rose Tyler, I love you,” he replied, sweeping her into his arms, his body solid and his grip so firm she could hardly manage to get her next words out.
“Doctor, I love you, too,” she said, her lips already opening against his.
She felt his tongue snake out almost instantly and she pulled away, moving so she could get her feet out from under her.
He staggered back, eyes hurt and hands clenched.
The sight of him so open and vulnerable gripped low in her stomach and she smiled at him, “Just getting my legs back — if you run, I’m chasing you.”
She watched the tension drop out of him, “No running, not from you. Not anymore.”
She smiled, licking her lips and looking him up and down, “Really? Not even if I do this?”
She pulled at a strap of her dress, sliding it down her shoulder and slipping her arm free.
“Absolutely not,” he said, his voice rough in a way that shot straight through her.
Rose nodded, “Good, good. And this?”
She slipped the other strap off the same way, moving her free arm up to keep the dress from tumbling to her waist.
“Oh, maybe for that,” but his eyes were focused on the top of her chest, the line where her skin met the smooth fabric.
She smiled at him, wide and happy and more than a little turned on, “And where would you be running to?”
He looked at her like she’d just dribbled on herself, but his eyes were sparkling, “To make sure the door was locked, of course.”
But he didn’t run there, instead he backed up slowly, hand groping behind him until he found the handle, clicking it locked with his thumb.
There was space, too much space, between them, and the room was still enveloped in heat. She could feel her heart under the arm across her chest, the pulse of it thumping wildly. She told him so and he grinned, pressing a hand to his own heart.
“Oh, I’m beating out a samba over here.”
She moved back on the table, her feet dangling a few inches above the ground, “Yeah? You gonna show me some of those moves?”
He made a noise like a growl and a hiss, “Rose Tyler, I’m going to show you all of them,” and he was hurtling across the room, a blur of blue and brown and Doctor.
Stopping between her legs, hands braced on the table on either side of her hips, he pulled up short with his mouth a few inches from her own.
“That’s it then? That’s your big move?” She leaned forward and nudged her nose against his.
He smiled, a sexy, silly thing that branched out in her veins like lightning, “You like it.”
She moved her mouth to his, her words ghosting between them, “I love it.”
And then his lips were on hers, hands framing her face and she couldn’t pull away this time, not that she wanted to. His tongue slid confidently into her mouth, stroking against her own and she let go of her dress to wind her arms around his neck and into his hair.
God, he had great hair.
Her dress stayed up only as long as his chest was pressed to hers and he figured it out the same time she did, smiling wickedly against her mouth as he arched his torso away from her. The dress fell to her waist and everything else toppled behind it.
It was a rushed series of moments — his shirt unbuttoned halfway before she moved to palm the front of his trousers, his hands under her bum as he lifted her enough to shimmy the bottom half of her dress up to meet the top, and the noises — the noises. Words and groans and yelps and he really didn’t shut his gob for anything, did he?
Everything shifting, sliding, moving, and there, and when it was done, the Doctor was leaning his forehead to hers, grins like boomerangs between them.
They wouldn’t find out for weeks to come, but somewhere on the other side of the door, Donna Noble was sending an e-mail, agreeing to another tour to support their upcoming album.