master of karate and friendship, for everyone.

you forgot what you meant when you read what you said.

cereal — Sun, 01 Jan 2017 05:55:58 GMT

I apparently haven't done the year-end questionnaire thing since 2011, which seems like a huge miss for me, in the sense that I can't look back at literally five years unless I want to muddle through the jungle of my incoherent Tumblr tags.

But! I'm gonna do it now!

Tonight we went to a New Year's Eve party thrown especially by people with kids, for people with kids. They rigged up a balloon drop that they did at 6:45 and we were home by 8, it was nice. Now we're back on our own couch, plowing through more of our third Office re-watch. It's the first episode after Michael left for Colorado and I have cried once a day, over the last several days, as a direct result of this rewatch.

1. What did you do in 2016 that you'd never done before?
I bought a car without having my dad involved at all. I mean, I'm sure he would've been, if I'd asked, but I didn't quite need to? It's a Volkswagen Tiguan and it replaced the car I (/we) bought in 2005 when I graduated college (an Oldsmobile Alero, which I always remember is what Zac Efron drove early on, and they made fun of him, because he was famous and driving it). I broke down on a mountain on I-15 in the old car, and lived, and I had never done that before and never want to do it again.

OH MY GOD EDITED TO ADD THAT WE GOT A DOG, I'VE HAD A DOG BEFORE, BUT AL AND I HAD NEVER HAD ONE ON OUR OWN, I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT THE FUCKING DOG!!!!

Her name is Jolly, this is when we got her/about her!

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
What I wrote in 2011 here was, "I resolve, in vague ways, to quit doing things that are bad for me every single year. I'll just stick with that, probably." Which literally is the basic summation of my resolutions for 2017, so. Everything old is new again. I think the bad things are probably fairly identical, even.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My sister-in-law did on New Year's Eve 2015, so we celebrated my nephew's first birthday today, but that wasn't actually a 2016 birth. I was around a ~regular amount of babies, but none from anyone close to me, I don't think.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, but that's becoming an increasingly large fear I have.

5. What countries did you visit?
England, Canada.

6. What would you like to have in 2017 that you lacked in 2016?
Impulse control.

7. What date from 2016 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
I don't know which day it was exactly, so I don't know if it counts, but I got promoted to a director position at work, and just that feeling of like, jesus christ, I can finally settle down for a minute, I am at a place in my career where even if I stopped any upward advancement, it would be fine, even though I won't stop. I make an amount of money that is probably, to be honest, a little much for my age yet, I'm the youngest director in the company (for now), and I'm good at what I do.

And because it seems crass to just talk about work, I'll certainly not forget Flynn starting kindergarten. I'll not forget breaking down in my car on that dumb mountain.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Ahhh, I didn't realize this was literally the next question, so basically the answer to #7. And then also, just like, being a parent. Being a mostly good parent, and a mostly good wife. GETTING A DOG

9. What was your biggest failure?
That complete lack of impulse control over things I would like to have impulse control over!

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I had a pretty brutal UTI at one point, I think they tried something like three or four different antibiotics. And then also, because I'm old, I get steroid/epidural shots in my lower back every three-four months now.

11. What were the best things you bought?
I bought a vintage Omega Seamaster when I got promoted. I've wanted that watch for about 20 years, because Fox Mulder had an Omega, and I like the Seamasters best. I kind of want another one, which seems insane, but maybe someday. Also my car!!!! But it doesn't feel like I "fully" bought that, because I still have a car payment.

We didn't techincally buy the dog, we adopted her, but, still! Jolly!

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Al's, my kids. But truly, Alphonse. Like, we have fights, but they're always sort of about the same thing, and it's not really a thing that matters, and beyond that, he's just -- like, fuck. He really is a genuinely good person.

13. Whose behaviour appalled you?
Every single person that voted for Donald Trump.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Kids, bills, student loans, online shopping, stupidity.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Every time the kids did something unbearably cute, Once Upon a Time, Star Wars, buying things?

16. What song will always remind you of 2016?
All of Blink-182's 'California,' the entire album and probably, "Bored to Death," the specific song. We saw them twice in concert this year!

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? Happier, but probably close to about the same. I don't really have many complaints, which I feel very grateful for, but also in a constant lowgrade state of anxiety about.
ii. thinner or fatter? I think about the same? Maybe slightly fatter as a result of the holidays, but this probably happened last year, too?
iii. richer or poorer? Richer, I guess. Kids, man. Kids are fucking expensive.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Saving money?? Eating healthier??

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
"Putting shitty things into my body!" is what I wrote in 2011, and I agree with now! Spending money on useless things, too.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it at our house first thing in the morning, then at my parents' for a bit, then over to my brother's new house for dinner.

21. How will you be spending New Years?
I am spending it right now!

22. Did you fall in love in 2016?
I think probably more deeply/meaningfully in love with everyone I already love! They're pretty great! AND THEN ALSO WITH THE DOG, GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT THE DOG THROUGH THIS ENTIRE HTING

23. How many one-night stands?
None, although Al apparently had a dream the other day that I cheated on him and so dream-him kicked me out and then real-fucking-life me got mad enough to be like, okay obviously we wouldn't live together, but TO BE EXTREMELY CLEAR, if in some insane universe I did cheat on you, you absolutely would not be able to take my kids away from me, I have a good job, and no criminal record, etc etc etc, and then I had to stop and be like, this is a crazy thing to be worked up over.

24. What was your favorite TV program?
Once Upon a Time, ugh. And then tbh Miraculous Ladybug.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
No?

26. What was the best book you read?
My mom (or brother?) got Flynn this book called, 'Rosie Revere, Engineer' and honestly that book, and reading it to Flynn was probably the best.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
The new Blink album! I think Catfish and the Bottlemen was this year, but maybe not.

28. What did you want and get?
The continued health and happiness of my family, a promotion at work. Cleveland to win a national championship (basketball). A DOG

29. What did you want and not get?
A giant amount of money in a savings account. Cleveland to win a national championship (baseball).

30. What was your favourite film of this year?
Rogue One, I think.

31. What did you do on your birthday?
I don't actually remember! I think I spent it just at home, and then I do remember that Al bought me a bunch of Sprinkles cupcakes, but so did my team at work, so I had just an insane amount of Sprinkles cupcakes.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I wish we'd have taken an actual vacation together as a family, like on an airplane and stuff.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2016?
Slouchy prepster cool mom.

34. What kept you sane?
Al; my mom. The internet. The TV. Which is what I wrote in 2011, too.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Colin O'Donoghue.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
The election.

37. Who did you miss?
I miss my college friends, my pre-baby friends, just like, friends that for whatever reason aren't as immediate now.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
I met a Tumblr friend (Kristen!) in person for the first time this year, I think?? THE DOG, JOLLY

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2016.
No one is going to fix it for you.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

Break me into bigger pieces
So some of me is home with you

but maybe just a lot of bits of 'dance yrself clean'??? or a lot of 'all my friends,' too! This period of my life is marked by a deep and abiding kinship (...I guess is the word???) with LCD Soundsystem songs.

the kids are all right. (the kids are amazing.)

cereal — Mon, 20 Jan 2014 18:22:32 GMT

Potter | 9:22 a.m., 12.28.13 | 7 lbs., 6 oz.

Oh, livejournal. We used to be so close, and now we’ve reached a point where I didn’t even tell you I was pregnant with our second kid. Whom I’ve now had. And am finally telling you about.

This seems like the sort of thing I’ll want to have a record of, in a “going back and reading old livejournal entries” sort of way, so you can have the whole story, right from the beginning, for the sake of posterity.

Way, way back at the beginning of 2013, Al and I started talking about having a second kid, because we knew we wanted a second kid and we wanted them to not be too far apart in age. We determined we’d start trying at the end of the summer into early fall. This was going to be a novelty for us, as with Flynn, she’d just sort of…happened, like surprise! You’re pregnant! Bet you weren’t expecting that! And we weren’t. But this one, we talked about, and in April, we decided I’d go off birth control in preparation for the trying to take place at the end of the summer.

So it’s April, I go off birth control, everything is normal, having a second kid is not an active thing, etc. Then it’s May 16 and it’s the day of The Office season finale and I’d spent that day, and sort of that week, being like, hey, I should probably have had a period by now. So that day after work, I pick Flynn up from preschool and we stop at Target and I buy a pack of those digital tests. The ones that say PREGNANT instead of easily misinterpreted lines and smiley faces and things.

And I’ve got Flynn by my side and I’m like, yeah, no, I’m taking this test now. So we go into the family restroom, which is a place that used to be a place Al and I had sex. Not the one at Target, but it was still sort of a weird juxtaposition of life moment — from young and childless and having sex in public restrooms to taking a pregnancy test with a toddler by my side in public restrooms. Like, how is time passing, how is this my life.

And so I pee on the stick and Flynn’s careening around the restroom doing her best to, like, get a staph infection or Hep C or something, touching every goddamn unsanitary thing in the world, and I put the test on the toilet paper dispenser and try and disinfect Flynn and then keep her from restroom diseases or whatever and I’m timing the test on my watch and then suddenly it’s time to look at it.

I walk back across the restroom, which is probably like a six foot walk, but felt like an ultra-marathon through wet cement and I look at the test, and there it is: PREGNANT. It was something I was almost sure was happening by that point, like, I knew when my period should’ve been, sort of, I knew it hadn’t come, I knew I wasn’t on birth control, but still, seeing it confirmed, it was just as crazy as the first time, when I found out I was pregnant with Flynn, but in a totally different way. I don’t know how to explain the difference. I turn to Flynn and literally said, to this tiny person we’d already made, to this kid who wasn’t even 2 yet, and I said, “I’m pregnant, you’re going to have a little brother or sister.” And Flynn, predictably, did not react at all. It’s possible I didn’t even say it out loud, and it’s equally possible I shouted it at the top of my lungs. Everything felt like I was living in television static. But also like I was happy.

I wrapped up the test in paper towels, and shoved it, along with the rest of the tests in the bottom of my purse and we drove home. Al was already there and I hadn’t — like with Flynn I hadn’t really had to tell him. He was there when I took the very first test for her and we both agreed it read pregnant, and then when I took a subsequent test at work, I just basically called him to confirm it. But this one was out of the blue. And for some reason, I didn’t tell him right away. I think I felt like I had to figure out how to tell him.

We presumably ate dinner, though I have no memory of it, and then we put Flynn to bed, and I took another pregnancy test quietly and secretly in the upstairs bathroom. It said the same thing: PREGNANT, and then we sat down to watch The Office finale. I have a lot of feelings tied up in The Office. It was there for a lot of stuff in my life, I have memories of watching it in so many different places, stuff like when I moved back home after Jack and I broke up and I moved out of our apartment, and I’m back sitting on the couch in my parents’ house, watching the Thursday night NBC comedies, just weird, omnipresent flash memories of The Office. And that night I’m watching it all end, and I know I’m pregnant and I keep looking at Al on the couch and it was just, I don’t know, I felt really…heavy during that whole episode. Just my entire body, my sense of self, felt heavy, but not in a bad way.

The next day, we got up and we went to work and it was a Friday, and I couldn’t figure out, all day, what I was going to say. It wasn’t that I was worried he was going to be mad, not exactly, but it was just so much earlier than we had planned. Somewhere in there I took a third pregnancy test — still pregnant — and then suddenly we’re back at home and Flynn’s in bed again and it’s Friday night and I still have no plan, I have no idea how I’m going to do it, but I’m terrible at keeping surprises and secrets and stuff. I always want to tell people about their Christmas gifts as soon as I’ve bought them, stuff like that.

So I march upstairs, to where all the positive tests are, and I grab them and I come back down, and Al’s on the couch watching TV. I think I turned the TV off, but I may have just muted it, and I stammered and I stuttered and I finally just deposited a handful of sticks I had literally peed on into his lap. He looked at them and I think at that point I had actually said it out loud, said “I’m pregnant.” He stood up and gave me a hug and again, it was the same shock as when we were pregnant with Flynn, but also completely different.

The OBGYN, because this was my second pregnancy and I had so many positive at-home tests, was like, yeah, you’re pregnant, we don’t need to see you until you’re 8 weeks along, which based on complete guesses about the date of my last period, was more than a month away. It was May 16 and the appointment wasn’t until June 21. They figured I was about three to four weeks along.

I can’t remember if we told my parents that Sunday or Monday, I think it was Monday. I actually don’t remember even how we told them. I think we’d figured out that the due date was likely to be around my mom’s birthday (January 3), again by total guesses, but we basically said something like, you might have to share your birthday, we’re pregnant. And my mom cried and got really happy and my dad was surprisingly also happy and didn’t seem very judgmental. This was an actual concern I had — that my dad wasn’t going to be pleased, because kids are expensive and had we thought this through, etc. But he didn’t do that, or if he did, he didn’t do it in front of us.

We told my brothers at some point, I think it was a week or two later. We took a picture of us, me holding a sign that said BABY#2 with an arrow to my stomach, and Al and I pointing at it, and we put it on the fridge and waited for them to notice when they came over for our family dinner. They noticed.

We decided we weren’t going to tell anyone else though (outside of Al’s immediate family, who we also told. Or Al told. They live across the country and it happened on the phone). There was a thing where like, I was supposed to be getting promoted at work, but the timetable wasn’t very certain, just sometime in the relative near future. And I didn’t want it getting out that I was pregnant and them deciding they could wait until I came back from maternity leave to promote me. This promotion had been a long time coming, it had taken for-fucking-ever and, while they legally couldn’t not promote me because I was pregnant, they could just not promote and blame it on something else, because how would I prove that, you know?

So some time passed, I think a couple of weeks, no more than three, and I was craving mashed potatoes. I went to Popeye’s, which is literally a place I had never been before, on my lunch break, and I got their mashed potatoes, and they were good, I figured I’d want them again, and I went to text Al that I liked them and would want them again and that the closest one was on a certain street, and he should get psyched to be driving there. Only Al and Allison (gallifreyburning!Allison) start with the same letters, and I’d already been texting with both Al and Allison that day, and, as the lead up to this paragraph would hint at, I sent it to Allison instead. So Allison found out. Allison actually found out well before, like, most of our extended family, any of our friends, coworkers, etc. But because Allison is awesome, it actually proved to be really amazing. I had someone I could talk to about it who wasn’t Al or my mom and who had also had kids. Special A+ high five grateful shout out to Allison!

We’d been circling closer to finally just going ahead and getting married, Al had proposed while I was pregnant with Flynn, but neither of us had any interest in planning a wedding, having a big wedding, etc. But now it was like, if we don’t do this now, it’s going to be another year before we can do it, because pregnancy and then a newborn and stuff. I’d already bought my dress, just a simple white dress from J.Crew and, like a fucking bonehead, I’d ordered a 4 petite. The way J.Crew sizes things, a 4 petite is a regular 2, so I had this wedding dress that was a goddamn SIZE TWO and I was already pregnant. I don’t know if it’s normal to start gaining a little bit of weight early, but I did it with both kids, and so I was up at least five pounds, if not more, and it was like, fuck it, let’s do this. We settled on Father’s Day — June 16 — because that was the soonest date the courthouse had available and that was that. There’s a detailed account of the wedding stuff in this entry, but here’s something I didn’t mention in it because no one knew I was pregnant yet:

Because of that weight, that wedding dress was almost — ALMOST — impossible to get into. So we’re trying to get out the door to get to the courthouse and I’ve got my hair done and everything and my parents are over at the house because they were going to follow us over there and also because moms and wedding days, you know how it goes. But I get Flynn ready and Al gets ready and I finally go to get myself ready and I can’t get the fucking dress zipped. It’s a side zip and it’s nearly ready to go up, I can get it half way up, but it’s just this dainty little zipper and the more I tug, the more concerned I am that I’m going to just snap the zipper entirely and not be able to do anything, like an hour before we’re due at the courthouse. My mom tries to help, she can’t get it up, it’s a mess. And I have this idea — I just need to be able to flatten down my skin, because it’s catching on the flesh over my ribs, there’s like, pliability there, not really fat that would need somewhere to go, just like…flesh. And so I figure if I can strap it down, make it smooth, I can get it zipped.

So I literally get Saran Wrap, like plastic cling wrap to keep leftovers fresh, and my mom and I cling wrap my ribcage, just enough to smooth it out, and with some finagling, we get the zipper up. It’s a little tight around the ribs, but it doesn’t seem like it’ll rip, and it’s not entirely constricting my breathing, only a little bit. And so we dig the cling wrap out, and it’s shredding, just pieces of cling wrap coming off in our hands as we go at it from the top and bottom of my dress. It was hilarious and amazing and my mom is never going to have memories of a big fancy wedding from her only daughter, but I can’t imagine she’ll ever forget standing in our master bathroom, pulling cling wrap out of my dress.

We make it to the courthouse and had the ceremony, just like I talked about in the other entry, and then we come home, we didn’t even bother to get a hotel, but my parents watched Flynn, so it’s our wedding night, and obviously we’re going to have sex, like, that’s a given, but this dress, man, this fucking dress. And Al and I aren’t going to have fancy wedding memories either, but we do have the memory of standing in the kitchen, both of us working on the zipper of my dress trying to get it off, pulling and tugging and contemplating using tools and laughing laughing laughing because I’m pregnant and I’ve gained weight from that and just, I don’t know, it was a really cool thing, in a way. I’m never going to forget that. (We got it off, and then we got off, RIMSHOT!)

Back to the actual pregnancy, we eventually got to that first doctor’s appointment five days after the wedding and they told me I was, in fact, about eight weeks along and they gave us a likely conception date and a due date. We backtracked on the conception date, just to see if we could figure out if we remembered it, and turns out it was the day of this food festival and so we were able to put together that I was literally tied to a headboard for it. This has become a running joke, just like, what did we do to this kid already that she started her life while her mom was tied up?

Sometime after that, but before we told everyone, we found out we were having a girl. I wanted a boy and Al wanted a girl, but obviously, like everyone says, we just wanted a healthy baby. Turns out though, I like, really wanted a boy. I got over it pretty quickly, but following that appointment, and for a few days afterward, I was pretty upset. This seems like a horrible thing to mention, but it was a very real part of my pregnancy, this confusing feeling where I had mentally prepared for one thing and was presented with the reality of another. I subsequently reversed my decision entirely and had no interest in having a boy, something I still feel today, even though we’re not having any more kids.

I just — like, boys have penises, boys have little boy penises and they get little erections and I remember when we were young, my brother and I, I remember my little brother telling my mom that his penis grew too big, and I just — I do not want to deal with that. I don’t have a penis, I don’t know about penises except in a sexual way, and it sounds weird to say, but I was and am genuinely worried that that would be confusing/damaging for me — trying to parse the relationship I have with penises now to the relationship you’d have if you had a son. I understand this sounds completely fucking ridiculous, I get it, but there it is.

We had the name Potter picked out for a girl (it was Harvey for a boy) and so Potter she became.

We went on after that, still without telling anyone because my work was still dicking around on the promotion, and (surprisingly) slowly but surely I started to show. Around 15 weeks (I can’t actually remember exactly when, and I can’t remember if it was before or after we found out the gender) I finally told my bosses, just to be like, hey listen, you guys need to know this, but we’re not telling anyone and I certainly don’t want it to affect the promotion case-building we’re doing. They assured me it wouldn’t and we kept on. There’d been a few close calls throughout — mostly centered around how I wasn’t drinking at work events. Like people at work know I love scotch and am least good for drinking a beer or two and they kept saying it jokingly — you’re not pregnant, are you? Haha. — but it was true and I have to imagine it looked more and more suspicious the more times I didn’t drink. It got to the point where I just stopped going out with coworkers because that was easier than excuses about why I wasn’t drinking.

Shortly after that it was entirely too much to keep secret because I was definitely showing in a pregnant way, not in a just gaining weight way. We told everyone at 19 weeks.

Pregnancy went on, I didn’t have any morning sickness (I didn’t with Flynn either), but I did get the same pregnancy migraines. And then I got a kidney stone and that sucked. And then weeks later, on a trip to Montreal for work, I got a UTI and that turned into a kidney infection, and I was in the hospital for three days and that sucked even more. After that they put me on a course of antibiotics for the rest of my pregnancy and nothing else like that happened.

Finally — F I N A L L Y — I was in my third trimester and things started moving along more quickly. Because we didn’t actually know the date of my last period and everything was just based on guessing and how the baby was measuring, it was hard to predict exactly when I was due. It was supposed to be late January and then Jan. 20 and then Jan. 18. They’d told me I was measuring slightly big, at something like 34 or 35 weeks, and I was carrying big in the stomach (weirdly with this pregnancy, I carried much more in my stomach than anywhere else. With Flynn I sort of, like, bloated all over, but this one was really contained to my stomach for the most part). They did an ultrasound to check on the size based on that stuff and they told me she was already 6 lbs.-ish. Flynn was only 6 lbs., 6 oz. when she was born, so I had visions of having a giant baby, like a How I Met Your Mother Ericksen baby type situation.

Shortly after that, at my 36 week appointment, I was dilated 3 cm. I’d delivered 17 days early with Flynn and my doctor was convinced I was going to go early with this one, too, so it seemed like maybe we were coming up on something. At that appointment — on Dec. 26 — my doctor had said she see me next week/in the new year, if I made that long.

The very next day — December 27 — Al and I were both on Christmas vacation from work and we’d gone to see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. We’d done some vacation…stuff (sex!) before the movie because Flynn was off at preschool, we’d actually been doing a lot of that, because, uh, we usually do a lot of that and I enjoy it? But it was setting off contractions every time. I’d been able to shake them each prior time, but this time, they’d been going on for several hours and they seemed pretty regular to me. I insisted we stay until the end of the movie, because I wanted to see how it ended, but by the time we were leaving the theatre, I figured we ought to go to the hospital. We got home, picked up the bag and stuff, and set out for the hospital. I made Al turn around because I decided I wanted to take a shower, so we did and I did, and then we headed back out again. My mom picked up Flynn from preschool and brought her to their house and my dad stayed home with her while my mom met us at the hospital.

They hooked me up to a monitor and eventually decided I was only in early labor. They gave me a bag of fluids and ultimately sent me home. I should’ve realized these weren’t the big fuck you contractions of labor, but they seemed painful enough at the time, and I couldn’t exactly remember how bad contractions were.

My parents volunteered to keep Flynn for the night and my contractions kept up. I wasn’t prepared to do this for three more weeks, they were distracting and painful and I was pretty sure I was having this kid soon anyway, so we ate some spicy chicken, had some more sex, and went to the pinball arcade to play/walk around.

The contractions kept up, but didn’t seem to be getting any worse, and we finally went to bed. They kept waking me up and then finally around 4 a.m., they were definitely worse and they were definitely too much to sleep through. I woke Al up and told him they were getting worse and I probably wanted to go back to the hospital.

Then things escalated super quickly. Suddenly I was in blinding pain, like, true fucking contractions and how — H O W — could I have forgotten what those felt like? True contractions are no joke at all and it was 4:30 in the morning and I’d completely forgotten all about, like, how you’re supposed to breathe during those things, and instead I’m just writhing around on our bed screaming the word ‘fuck’ at the top of my lungs. Fuck, fuck you (not at Al, but at the situation), fuck this, all at full volume. I’m sure the neighbors thought Al and I were having some sort of nuclear meltdown fight.

We set off for the hospital and I’ve got a dishtowel I’m clenching every time I have a contraction (this is actually a thing I did with Flynn, too, only it was a hand towel from the bathroom at my parents house — this is a thing I’d recommend, something to squeeze) and the contractions are coming like crazy and crazy painful and we park the car and Al tries to drop me off at the ER doors, but I, like an idiot, insist I can walk, so we’re walking through the parking lot and I just…puked. I just felt like I had to puke and suddenly I was puking. Twice. Right on the asphalt.

We get into the ER again, we checked in at 5:52 a.m. and they immediately get me up to labor and delivery, and then I’m in the triage section and they’re like, yeah, you’re definitely having this baby. I was dilated 6 centimeters at this point and they moved me to a room and there’s all this stuff that has to be done, monitors and bloodwork and stuff, before they’ll give an epidural and I’m just in blinding pain, asking repeatedly for the fucking epidural and they’re like, ….it might not take entirely, since you’re progressing so fast, and I was like, I DO NOT CARE, YOU GIVE IT TO ME ANYWAY

With Flynn, they didn’t have a room available right away, and I was in triage a lot longer. You can only have one person with you in triage, so my mom and Al kept switching off. My mom caught the brunt of the worst of my contractions, and they administered the epidural in triage, so by the time Al saw me again with Flynn, I wasn’t feeling the terrible ones.

This time, Al saw all of it and he was aaaaaaamazing. I kept swearing and then apologizing to the nursing stuff and I kept squeezing Al’s pocket, like I tried with his hand, and I did squeeze his hand several times, along with my dishtowel, but those things hurt, like an unbelievable amount of pain, and I figured out that I liked to be touching Al, but not hurting him, and so I hooked my hand into the front of his jeans and kept squeezing around that during contractions. That seems like a weird thing to mention, but I have very specific memories of it and it helped.

They propped me up against him to administer the epidural, like they had him stood between my legs while I sat on the bed, and I leaned into his chest while they put the needles in my back and it was actually sort of really nice in a way? I mean, I was in an unbelievable amount of pain, but Al’s there and he smells like Al and he’s this solid, comforting presence in front of me, he was like a fucking rock, and I don’t know, I just really love him, I was really grateful for him at that exact moment. They did this with my mom and a nurse when Flynn was born, since she happened to be the one in triage when the doctor came for the epidural and I’m grateful for that, too — that I had this experience with my mom and with Al.

Anyway, the epidural took hold and I almost immediately felt better (obviously) and then we just hung out a little bit, waiting for a doctor from my OB’s practice to get there and tell me to start pushing.

I kept sucking down ice chips, because that’s all they let you have, but all I wanted was juice, I kept talking about it, how much I wanted some cranberry juice. It was like an all-consuming feeling, this cranberry juice. A little bit after that, the doctor showed up and was like, OK, let’s give pushing a shot, and then suddenly they were like, yeah, this is good, we’re going to keep doing this and that was it, I was literally having the baby then.

I pushed for only about 20 minutes, not quite that even, and part of the epidural wore off in my lady bits, so I was able to feel slightly more there than I was with Flynn. It’s a really weird feeling, genuinely like you’re going to the bathroom, but with the feeling of pressure magnified, and I’m feeling all this, and the doctor’s trying to massage things and help things along and she’s trying and trying, but it was clear they were going to have to cut me again, and so I had another episiotomy. Hooray. Apparently tearing naturally is out of the question for my body, even on the second kid.

So they get that done and I’m pushing again and then the doctor’s like, “I see blonde hair!” which — that is exactly what happened with Flynn, the announcement of the blonde hair. And I started laughing because of course she’s blonde, too, of course she is and then I can feel her head in my vagina and there were a few more contractions/pushes and she was out. With the epidural worn off down there, I could feel like this squirming, moving, alive release of pressure and it was amazing and ridiculous. HAVING BABIES IS AMAZING AND RIDICULOUS.

I had just enough time to ask why she wasn’t crying when she started crying and they plopped her on my chest and oh my god, what that’s like, what it’s like when they put this baby you’ve been carrying around inside of you on you, on your chest, and she’s there and she’s alive and her face and her hair, it’s literally like sunshine, like the whole world is bright and warm and focused. God, that’s amazing, what an amazing feeling.

Al cut the cord and then he and my mom followed the nurse over to the other end of the room to get Potter cleaned up while I delivered the afterbirth and had stitches put in. The doctor tried to do it without numbing me back up and my mom said it looked like I nearly about jumped to the ceiling, so they re-numbed the area. Thankfully. Whoo boy.

Potter was born at 9:22 a.m. on December 28 (exactly three and a half hours after check-in, way to go on the short labor, little Potter). She was 7 lbs., 6 oz., and 20 inches long. She was also — predictably — perfect. She is perfect.

My parents brought Flynn up that afternoon and Flynn seemed sort of wary and, most notably, absolutely terrified to touch Potter at all.

We only stayed in the hospital until the next day and then we headed to my parents’ house to pick up Flynn. Flynn was much more into Potter this time around, insisting on holding her and stuff, which was like, I don’t even know, my heart soars with the eagle’s nest.

Potter’s three weeks old today (/yesterday, depending on when I get this posted) and she’s been an amazing baby, great eater, great sleeper, super happy, super cuddly.

I’m breastfeeding almost exclusively. We had to supplement a little bit, per doctor’s orders, just to get her weight back up, but it’s only ended up to be about one formula bottle every few days and it’s so much woooork, I forgot how much work breastfeeding a newborn is. I mean, I’m happy to do it, but god, this is a lot of work. It makes me tired and hungry and it’s time-consuming.

I ended up gaining 35 pounds (with Flynn I gained 42), and I’m down about 15 of those at three weeks postpartum.

Al’s been on vacation/paternity leave for the past three weeks, he goes back to work on Monday and I am not looking forward to it at all. I think I’ve changed maybe 15 diapers this entire time, he’s been so on top of it.

I feel like there’s more I want to mention, more I’ll want to remember, but it’s all jumbled together right now and this entry is probably reaching live journal character count limits anyway.

Instead, as was my way on livejournal, here's a bunch of photos!

keep the car running.

cereal — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 19:44:50 GMT

Hello, Livejournal! I haven't forgotten about you, and I still read my friends list, I just haven't posted in a while! But!

All right (and I actually told Tumblr this yesterday here), so, yesterday we got married, and I feel like I should probably write about that briefly, if only so I can remember it years down the line when my memories of it have been replaced by, like, my shopping list for the supermarket on the moon, and simple hoverboard repair techniques.

Here we go! Alphonse and I played a nearly two year long game of 'who could care the least about a wedding.' Some would argue this game actually went on for the entire six years we've been together, but the official game clock didn't start until the proposal, as far as the rulebook goes.

I am nothing if not terrific at not caring about things and competitive, and I feel like I won, but judges scores aren't in yet. Basically we were always headed toward the courthouse. We kept trying to plan small things at other places, and we'd invariably get derailed or bored, and stop.

Finally there came a point where practicality won out. We had all the stuff for a wedding, had filled out the application for our marriage license, I had a dress, he had a suit, we just needed to do it.

On Friday, my naive notions that we could just walk into the courthouse were upended, and it became clear we needed an appointment. Because, as indicated, I was winning the 'who could care the least' game, Alphonse called for the appointment. They didn't have any until Sunday afternoon, which, after some deliberating about possible other options since this town is full of quick places to get married, we ultimately took.

On Saturday we went downtown and picked up our marriage license. It was shockingly easy, and also depressing, because basically they looked at our driver's licenses, made sure we were of opposite gender, took some money from us, and we're like, Yep! You can get married!

On Sunday, because it was Father's Day, we did some Father's Day stuff in the morning. Blah, blah, blah, donuts, blah blah, blah. Around noon, I went and got my hair done, with my mom in tow, because my mom, despite the courthouse and delayed-shotgun nature of this wedding, was still delighted to pay for things when the opportunity became available. And then I got my nails done.

And then there was like a big blur of things that happened? And suddenly I was the last one that could get ready, because like, we have a two-year-old, and I don't know. I don't know what happened. There are some hilarious things with my dress that I'll explain at a later date, but eventually we got out the door, in our Chuck Taylors. The last thing we did before we left the house was realize no one had secured anything blue, and we found the sonic screwdriver, which is Ten's, so it's blue, and we took that. (Al subsquently kept it in his jacket pocket for the ceremony. The something new was my dress, the something old and something borrowed was a necklace with a small diamond on the end that I remember my mom wearing when I was a kid.)

We got to the courthouse, and it was pretty dead downtown because it was a Sunday, and the lady led us into the building, and then also took our money, and then also indicated that she would perform the ceremony, which was hilarious. I think that was in a movie, where they keep seeing the same person doing a different job at some place? What am I thinking of? Wait, it might be Gilbert Godfried in the Saved by the Bell wedding. I don't know.

We took some pictures and then she came back in and started the ceremony and she was like, "Face each other, stand closer, pretend like you ilke each other," blah blah every joke every dad has ever made ever.

Inexplicably, I laughed the whole ceremony. It's on video and everything. I think some people cry and stuff, but I don't know, I just couldn't stop laughing. Not an obnoxious loud laugh or anything, but a happy laugh, and enough that everyone in the room noticed. It just felt surreal. Here's Alphonse in his big boy suit, holding my hands, repeating that he's going to cherish me? I mean, it was certainly nice, but who even were these people? WE were getting MARRIED. What were we even doing? Did someone want to intervene? It was one of those moments everybody thinks only they have, but that really everyone has, where you're like, "...we are going to be found out as frauds any minute now."

I think also I was just happy. I felt happy, I felt goofy and happy and light, and I laughed. Al wasn't offended, if anything he looked sort of like, charmed? Pleased? I don't know. Just this look of like, someone who knew this was always a possibility, if I was going to be his bride, I might laugh during the ceremony, and he was fine with it. He looked a little bit nervous, but also resolved, and I don't know. It was nice, and happy. We've always been a good balance for each other, and that was true even during the ceremony.

Then the woman had us kiss, and I made a point to slip him a little tongue, but not a lot because my grandpa was there, but also, I was not starting things out on a tongue-less foot. Who wants to set that sort of precedent? Sure as fuck not me.

Then we left, and went and took some pictures downtown, it was hot, Flynn was a 2 year old, I don't know.

We had dinner as a family on the Strip, and then we all went back to my parents' house for a few more pictures that we didn't really end up taking. We left Flynn there for the evening, and then went back to our house.

My dress was particularly tight on the zipper at my ribs on the side, and literally not tight anywhere else. So we stood in the kitchen, and it was not sexy or romantic at all, but it felt better this way, and we struggled to get the zipper down and then we did and I was in my underwear in the kitchen. We went upstairs, and I think I went to pee or something? I don't remember, but when I came back Al was in his boxer briefs with just his button up, and I was like, WHAT, THIS IS MY WEDDING NIGHT. And I made him put all of his clothes back on so I could take them off, so he did.

I then told him, "If you take your pants off, I'm going to start crying," meaning, if you don't let ME take them off, and do it instead yourself, I'm going to start crying, but Al was like, "Things Jamie told me on our wedding night: 'if you take your pants off, I'm going to start crying,'" and we laughed and then I took his pants off.

I don't know, nothing felt different, nothing feels different, the whole thing is weird, but nice and happy and great. Al in just his boxer briefs and his wedding ring has shot to the top of my favorite things to look at list and he's caught on already, and he keeps positioning that hand on his boxer briefs in provocative and hilarious ways.

fic; Doctor Who: Good, Brilliant, Spectacular. (adult.)

cereal — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 04:22:27 GMT

title: Good, Brilliant, Spectacular.
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: TenToo/Rose.
rating: Adult.
words: 1,456.
summary: Happy, smutty TenToo/Rose fluff.
notes: Written for Ania's birthday, over on Tumblr!

It's months and months and months after Norway that it strikes him.

Months filled with beds and kitchen tables, storage cupboards and balconies, every sofa they've ever occupied alone for more than an hour.

Shouts to the ceiling and filthy words, bit-back gasps and teeth sunk into shoulders to muffle groans.

Naked or mostly clothed, skirts hiked up and trousers undone, frantic and sweating, or slow and sweet, and it occurs to him then, right then, towering over Rose Tyler as she twists and turns beneath him in their bed --

"We're good at this," he says, and the words are panted as his rhythm stutters.

Her eyes wrench open, jaw unclenching, hips arching for a restart. "What?"

"This," he says, and he punctuates it with one quick thrust before he's pulling back a bit again, still keeping them connected. "We're very good at it."

Her fingers unclench from where they're fisted in the sheets, moving beneath his arm to curl around his shoulders instead, and then they're dragging roughly down the length of his back.

The sharp edges of her fingernails are usually enough to spur a moment of reckless movement out of him, but today he just grins with it, arching his back to seek out more of the sting.

"See?" he asks, "We're good! You know I like that!"

She shakes her head on the pillow, laughter and frustration fighting for space in her mouth -- a place she'd prefer was occupied by his tongue.

"We are good," she says. "And it was getting so good, about to be great, even! And you stopped!"

He smiles and shrugs, the motion hampered by the way he's still bracing his weight on his arms.

"Just thought I should point it out," he says.

"How good we are at shagging?"

He drops a kiss to her nose, pushing himself deeper inside her, and she fights down a groan.

"Ye-p!"

Her hips angle to meet his, trying to bring him back around.

"In the middle of shagging? You wanted to point it out -- discuss it -- in the middle of a shag?"

He nods enthusiastically. "Yep! What better time to point it out? Shagging, fucking, so many words for this, pages and pages of it, and we, Rose Tyler, are brilliant at all of it!"

Her legs fall from where they were wrapped around his waist, settling on the bed and spread around the length of his body. "All right, we're brilliant at it. Should we demonstrate?"

She arches to meet him again, the soft, brief slap of skin on skin, and he can feel the way she's clenching around him, deliberate and focused and that look in her eye.

It's almost enough to start him up again, certainly would have been months ago, when they -- he -- was so new to this. Now though, like he said, he's gotten good at it. Gotten good at holding out, gotten good at coaxing laughter from her, silly words and happy kisses, filthy words and messy kisses, all of it such a great adventure as they tumble together toward supernovas.

There's a point, he knows, where he won't be able to speak anymore, where his vocabulary will devolve into gasps and grunts and these breathy noises that are really best described with a vocabulary other than English. But right now, buried inside of Rose, he's content to just -- linger.

"Of course, I'm good at loads of things," he continues. "But this was a bit unknowable, wasn't it? Human hormones, human body, human sex, there's a chance I could've been rubbish at it. Not a big one, mind, I'm still me, but still -- a tiny, little chance."

She unclenches around his cock, relaxing into the sheets more fully and finally resigning herself to having this conversation now.

"I don't know," she says. "Pretty rubbish of you to stop with me moments away from coming." She winks at him. "It was going to be spectacular."

He grins again, pushing from his hands to his elbows above her. "It's always spectacular! That's what I'm saying!"

He pauses, awkwardly maneuvering to tug at his ear with his fingers. "Well, there are those times when you're very tired, or very stressed, or when I am very, very drunk, that the ending isn't always spectacular. But still, good fun even then, wouldn't you say?"

Her hand moves into the space between their chests, tripping lightly down his skin until she's dancing over the spot where they're joined.

"I was looking forward to a spectacular ending tonight," she says, and goes in for the kill, fingers ringing tightly around the base of his cock.

"Fuck!" he yelps, and then he's thrusting shallowly into her fingers, into her, and she thinks she's won, but then he slows the movement again.

"As I recall, Rose Tyler, you already had one spectacular ending tonight," he says, and he sounds smug. "Or don't you remember? My face buried here." He shifts, thrusting again, more to reference the area than spur any feeling. "My tongue inside you, and then tap-tap-tapping on your clit. You were really very wet, Rose. I'm certain you haven't forgotten."

She sighs, shaking her head. "No, I haven't forgotten. But I just -- sometimes I like another one!"

He grins and presses his mouth to hers, not long enough for her to deepen the kiss the way she wants.

"And I'd like for you to have another one! Love it when you have two," he crows. "Three sometimes, even, but you know how that last one always goes, it's a bit...simmering, isn't it?"

Her hands move swiftly, cupping his cheeks. "I'd like that second one now. Please," she says, punctuating the word with a slow arch of her hips.

His eyes slip shut briefly, "Oh, I do love it when you say please."

She brings his mouth to hers again, murmuring against his lips, "Please, Doctor, please?"

He nods, tipping his forehead to hers briefly before propping himself back up.

"Well, since you asked so nicely," he says.

He thrusts into her quickly, burying himself before pulling back to launch into a rhythm. Her legs find his waist again, fingers curling once more into the skin of his back, grabbing at his arse, his shoulders, anything, anywhere, go go go go go go.

She's back on the precipice in a few long moments, the Doctor now reduced to curse words and noise as he strokes in and out of her.

"I know you like it when I do this, too," he grinds out, fingers finding her clit and rubbing purposefully, frantic and friction and fuck, if he stops again, she will bloody murder him.

It's all too much, both of them, everything, skin and sweat and feeling, a buzzing in her head and a fizzing in her veins and so close

fucking

Then she's slamming her eyes shut, fingers gripping him so tight, as she convulses around him and shouts out her release.

"Brilliant!" he shouts, and it's the last word he gets out that isn't a curse, fuck and fuck and god fuck yes, falling into short barks of sound as he loses all finesse and scrambles mindlessly to follow her.

She's got her hands around the back of his neck, still riding the ebb of her climax, and then she's tugging him down so that his mouth is next to her ear.

"Come," she breathes, pleads, commands, "Doctor, come."

With a noise halfway between a groan and a yelp, he listens, a final, sloppy thrust before he's going tense and rigid above her, and she can the pulse of it as he empties himself into her.

When he's done, breath evening out and chest stilling above hers, she pulls at him until he collapses on her, bearing his weight for a few content minutes, before nudging to roll him away.

He nuzzles into the pillow, shimmying to get his feet under the duvet, as she moves for the en suite.

When she returns, he's lying on his back, snoring softly. She walks back toward him, shifting herself onto the bed and straddling his hips.

"Wake up, Doctor," she says, jostling his shoulder.

He opens his eyes blearily. "What?"

"I need to talk to you about how brilliant we are at sleeping!"

He sputters beneath her, "Now?!"

She smirks at him. "What better time to point it out? Sleeping, snoozing, dozing, so many words for this, and we're terrific at all of it!"

He groans, "I'm tired, Rose. Please?"

She nods and slips from his hips, moving to curl up alongside him with her head pillowed on his shoulder.

"Oh, I do love it when you say please."

fic; doctor who: Quantification of Apologies in Quarantine.

cereal — Sat, 26 Jan 2013 00:10:17 GMT

title: Quantification of Apologies in Quarantine.
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: TenToo/Rose.
rating: Adult.
words: 5,678.
notes: This was written to get the “locked in” square on my Trope Bingo card, and basically devolved into smut, but it’s my first square, and it still counts.

There is, because of course there is, intervention from the universe.

It's their first fight, their first big one anyway, and a day has passed, well, a night and a day, since that bridge in Cardiff and the Vapaxian.

They've been in a hotel room, in a zeppelin, and in a state of complete undress -- Rose Tyler so very, very naked that his neck goes hot, hours later, just thinking about it.

It wasn't for the usual reasons though, that nudity, and what he'd gotten in their place was a handful of observations on the unsexy nature of decontamination showers, and a stirring low in his abdomen that seemed to contradict them.

But there's not a lot of talking. There should be anger and confessions, forgiveness and whispered words.

Instead it's a tense ride back to the flat, Rose, with her cards to her chest, and the Doctor with his hand to his own, tapping out a steady rhythm on the right side.

A still-new nervous habit for a still-new nervous man.

When the cab drops them off, he thinks maybe she'll talk to him now. They're alone again finally, and she's probably had enough time to figure out how to really let him have. Because he deserves it, he sees that now.

But she's silent the whole lift ride, and all the way down the hall to the flat. Just inside the door, there's a pile of shoes, and he adds his trainers to it as Rose disappears into the kitchen.

They're all mixed up in a messy heap and, because he can, he mentally finds each shoe its mate.

It doesn't take very long.

"Tea?" Rose calls, her voice neutral, and he's not going to turn that down, not when it'll give him something to do with his hands.

Not when it's the first thing she's said to him in hours.

"Sure," he answers, and follows her path to the kitchen. "Why don't you let me make it?"

He tries for a smile, but if it looks like it feels, it comes out as an apologetic grimace.

She glances at him, right in the eye, and there's nothing there, no clues, no anger, nothing.

"Ta," she says, and leaves the kitchen.

It takes longer than it should to make tea, he's precise in everything, just to fill the time, water right to the line, carefully leveling off the sugar before he adds it.

When she comes back, she's in her pajamas, those sweatpants that are almost leggings, or those leggings that are almost sweatpants, he can never decide. He's always too occupied with the way they cling to her to even try. There's a t-shirt, too, a thin thing, with a v-neck, the lines of her collarbone taunting him, her skin still red from the thorough scrubbing it received.

He hands her a mug with another hesitant smile and she returns it, but it's not the smile she usually gives -- saves -- for him. No trace of tongue, no hint of teeth, just tight-lipped and polite. Like he's the postman, like he's the waiter.

It's somehow worse than yelling.

His own mug is still sitting on the counter and he'd used it deliberately. Rose had gotten it for him weeks ago, when he thought he might try a mustache. She had laughed, told him if he did, she wouldn't be fancying any rides on it, and bought the mug instead.

It's got a print of a big black handlebar mustache on it, and just last Tuesday, he'd sat at the table with it in front his face, talking in an old timey accent and listening to her laugh in reply. He misses her laugh.

"Gonna watch the telly," she says, and leaves him in the kitchen. It wasn't exactly an invitation, but it wasn't exactly not an invitation, and he grabs his mug and follows her out.

Settled on the sofa, he positions the mug just so, right in front his mouth again, because he's not above doing the greatest hits tour, but she barely looks at him.

He has to try.

The mug makes a noise when he puts it on the table and he picks it right back up, snagging a coaster before setting it back down. It's only flatpack furniture, but it's Rose's flatpack furniture, their flatpack furniture now, and he wants her to know he respects that.

After all, he's pretty sure that's what this whole thing is about.

"I respect you," he blurts out, and, oh, that could've been smoother.

Her head turns from the sitcom she'd put on, eyebrows raising as she looks at him.

"Do you?"

He nods quickly, "I do, Rose, I really do."

She takes a sip from her own mug before setting it aside. It's such a carefully neutral gesture, it completely unnerves him, and he spares a thought for all the poor sods she's ever interrogated.

"Wouldn't you say that actions speak louder than words? Isn't that the sort of thing you would say, the sort of man you are?"

It's unfurling right in front of him, this path she's leading him down, but he can't turn back, can't run, and he nods again.

"And wouldn't you say that refusing to listen to me about the instinctual attack habits of the Vapaxian female is a sign of disrespect?"

It's hard to get the word out, to push past all the rebuttals and excuses, but he does.

"Yes."

She shrugs, "Well, seems like you don't respect me then."

It's oddly casual, the whole exchange, and his tongue is itching to escalate it, clear the air, and be put to better use.

"Rose, you have to understand, I've dealt with Vapaxians before, loads of times, they're deadly, they are. I just didn't want to see you --"

She cuts him off, "You've dealt with them there, in the other universe. But you're here now, we're here, and sometimes things are different. Sometimes you can't protect me, and you have to trust that I can protect you."

He's about to reply when a whirring starts up. A quiet sound that grows to a buzz, and Rose is off the sofa in a matter of seconds, running to the door.

"No, no, no!" Her voice is raised, fingers scrambling at the lock, and then there's a click, loud like a gunshot, echoing through the room.

"Fuck!" She slams her hand on the door as he rushes to her side.

"What is it? What happened? What was that?"

If they're in danger, he needs to know, because he respects her, yes, but she's the only thing he's got, and he is also sure as hell going to protect her.

"We're locked in," she says, adrenaline deflating. "Quarantined, actually. I should have known."

It doesn't make any sense, they've been decontaminated and cleared, and they're home now.

"What? Why?"

She turns, pressing her back to the door and resting her head against it.

"Torchwood flat, Torchwood rules.
Vapaxian gas is harmless, we know that now, but the system doesn't, must've picked up a trace. We're in lockdown for 24 hours."

She pushes off the door, heading back to the bedroom, and he wants to follow her, but his brain is trying to process everything. They're quarantined?

Rose is back quickly, mobile pressed to her ear.

"Pete, Dad," she's saying. "I know the procedure, but there's got to be a manual override. We were on a zeppelin, for god's sake, if there were any danger, don't you think I wouldn't have left?"

Whatever Pete's response, it's not good, and Rose's face twists in anger.

"Fine," she says. "Do tell Mum we won't be 'round for lunch tomorrow then."

She signs off and hangs up, anger still brimming as she points a finger at the Doctor.

"In this universe, Vapaxian females spray a cloud of gas when provoked on a bridge in the middle of Cardiff," she says.

Well, yes, he knows that now, but --

"And in this universe, it's only recently been cleared as harmless, which means it's still processed as a threat by Torchwood security procedures. So, like I said --"

"Lockdown," he fills in, and it's a sad-sounding word, full of regret.

"Yes! Because you didn't trust me! We were in no danger! Not from the gas, not from whatever they do in the other universe, nothing! But you went charging in anyway, simple rescue and return, completely botched!"

His mouth is moving before he can stop it, "Not completely botched. Got her home safe in the end. Us, too."

He can see her clawing to lash out again, foot twitching like she wants to stomp it, a remnant of the fiery teenager she used to be. She calms herself though, and walks back to the sofa with measured steps.

Sitting down, she glances up at him once more.

"Yeah, we're home," she says. "We're stuck here."

He crosses to meet her on the sofa, gently nudging her knee with his own as he sits down.

"Yeah, but stuck with you? That's not so bad."

He can see her smile then, can tell it's in spite of herself.

"I'm still mad at you," she says.

"And I'm still sorry," he says.

They turn back to the television, but it's only a few seconds before she's speaking again.

"You'd run if you could, wouldn't you?"

Her head is still facing front, but she's got her eyes trained on him, waiting for an answer.

The truth is, he's thought about running a lot, about boarding a zeppelin, inventing an airplane, trainers to the pavement and off he goes, but it's never been more than just a thought, never been something he wants to put into action. Because he doesn't want to run if she's not beside him.

"I wouldn't," he says, and he means it.

She shifts to face him, "Liar."

"Rose, you have to trust me, too. I won't pretend I don't think about it, all those things just waiting to be explored," he grabs for her hand, pleased at the way her fingers fit around his own on reflex. "But it wouldn't be the same without this," he holds up their joined hands.

The fight seems to seep out of her then, her head lolling back against the couch.

"What do you think we should do?" She asks, fingers scratching against the back of his hand.

"Let's take a trip, have an adventure, somewhere you love, somewhere you've always wanted to go," he says. "Let's save a book club from the perils of bad literature, let's stop an ant infestation in the middle of New Jersey, let's find a stretch of road and drive as fast as we can and flirt with a cop to get out of the ticket," he's winding himself up, can see it all, all the things they can do, small things turned big, and Rose is smiling at him, a real one this time.

"I meant now," she says. "Stuck here."

"Oh. Well," he scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand. "I knew that. I was just --"

"You were being you. And I want all those things, I want to do them with you, but, Doctor, you're going to have to listen to me if I tell you the ants in this universe can only be killed by grape juice."

His eyes widen, "What, seriously?"

She laughs, "No, I don't know, maybe. Listen, we're gonna be fine, but I need you to promise that we're in this together."

He tightens the grip of his hand around hers, "I promise."

"And I need you to promise you're not going to cheat at cards."

They both know he's lying when he agrees to that, too.

Six hours, two cups of tea, and four card games later, and things are mostly back to normal. He can feel the fight in the air, a shadow still hanging around them, but it feels natural, somehow. They've argued and put it aside, they've fought and continued on.

It feels like a relationship.

And it's mostly followed the blueprint he's assembled, except there's one thing he's never gotten to try, one thing that always seemed exotic and promising.

Make up sex, he decides, that's what they need.

But how to get there?

They've already passed the fiery anger stage, he's missed his chance to pin her up against the wall, stop her yelling and press his mouth to hers until they both feel better.

There's already been promises, too, and he sees, he knows now, that he should've sealed them with a kiss, one with lots of tongue.

What's next, what's missing? Tearful confessions and heartfelt apologies and before he knows it, he's shaking her awake from her nap on the sofa.

"What? What is it? Is the door open?" She rubs at her eyes, focusing on him.

"No, it's not, I think I made it worse actually, went at it with a screwdriver," he says. "But, Rose, I need to tell you something."

She's alert now, sitting straight up, "Go on," she says, voice guarded.

"I think we maybe skipped a step. After I confess to my sins, and you forgive me, there's certain things I think that humans do. And I want to do them," he pauses and takes a deep breath. "Are we outside of the window for make up sex?"

A laugh bubbles up out of her, "I don't think there are hard rules for that."

He nods, he expected this, and he has a plan.

"All right, Rose Tyler," he says. "I have something to confess, and then you can forgive me, and we can go to the bedroom. Sound good?"

"Depends on what you're confessing," she says. "If you're finally going to own up to what you did to my favorite dress, then I might need some to time to process it."

He shakes his head, "I told you, the washing machine did that."

"And who put it in the washing machine?"

He doesn't miss a beat.

"Aliens."

She laughs again, "An alien, Doctor, really, those labels are there for a reason and --"

He blurts it out then, a string of rapid fire words, "I once stole a chocolate bar on Gastridon 7."

"You what?"

A deep breath and he begins again, "I was hungry, starving, really, blood sugar crashing, low energy, all of it, and I just -- I ate a chocolate bar in a shop, and then I got so distracted that I forgot to pay," he pauses. "And I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"

She tilts her head, processing, "You want me to forgive you for stealing a chocolate bar on a planet I know for a fact you went on to save from destruction?"

"Yep," he chirps. "And then I want to have make up sex."

Her words are slow, like she can't believe this happening, "All right, I, uh, forgive you. You're forgiven."

"Brilliant!" And with that, he's stretching across the sofa, leaning in to kiss her.

He tries to decide on the right pace, the right speed and technique. They've gotten awfully good at this over the last month or two, give and take, anticipate and surprise, all of it a completely brilliant time.

He's supposed to be apologizing or confessing or something, he's sort of lost the plot a bit, with the way her hand is tangled in his hair, and the way her tongue feels sliding against his.

It's supposed to be about her though, he remembers that much, and as her free hand skims down to the buckle of his belt, he brushes it away.

He pulls his mouth back from hers, shifting off the sofa and reaching to help her up.

"Plenty of time of time for that later," he says, pulling her toward their bedroom. "There's atoning to be done!"

It's dark in the bedroom, but he turns on every light he can find, dashing from the switch to both bedside lamps, the room brightening immediately.

When she raises her eyebrows at him, he winks back, "Need you to be able to see how sorry I am."

Really it's that he needs to see her. A few weeks ago, and a shag in the living room, the sunlight pouring in through the windows, and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. The way her face looked, the brush of her hands against her breasts as he buried his mouth between her legs, Rose Tyler like he'd never seen before, and like he wants to see her for the rest of their lives.

When he joins her where she's standing at the foot of the bed, she's giving him that look, the one that means she doesn't quite understand where they're going, but that she's happy enough to be along for the ride.

"I'm gonna take your clothes off now, all right?"

She smirks at him and lifts a finger to point at his mouth, "Gonna be running that the whole time?"

He grins back -- of course he is, she loves it when he does, told him so herself, in one particularly lazy afterglow. Plus, it's not just him with the gob, at least in the bedroom, and they both know it.

"Yep," he says. "Gonna make sure you hear what it is I'm sorry for, too."

He sets his hands on her waist, fingers curling into the bottom of her t-shirt before tugging it up.

"This is for leaving dirty dishes in the sink," he says, and she smiles and lifts the shirt the rest of the way off.

His hands return to her hips, dipping into the waist of her sweatpants and pulling them down. He sinks to his knees to help her remove them, dropping a stray kiss on her thigh as her hands knot in his hair.

"This is for hanging up on your mum," he kisses her leg again, punctuating each word with another one, "All. Six. Times."

He looks up in time to see her roll her eyes, still smiling down at him, and, god, if he could just keep that image forever.

Rising back up to his feet, he palms each breast lightly, thumbs rubbing light circles over her nipples, "This is just a bonus," he says. "For not putting on a bra when you changed."

She relaxes into the motion, head lolling back on her neck, eyes slipping shut as he presses against her more firmly before moving his hands to cup her shoulders.

He turns her, walking her the short distance to the end of the bed before nudging her to sit down on it. He nods toward the headboard and she shimmies up toward it, resting her weight on her elbows behind her as she looks at him expectantly.

He lifts the bottom of his t-shirt and the thermal he's wearing underneath, pulling it over his head and folding it neatly on the edge of the bed.

"That's for not thanking you for buying me such nice clothing," he says, and moves his hands to the fly of his jeans, shucking and folding those as well as his socks. "And for not pushing when I didn't want suits."

She nods her head slightly, acknowledging the man he's becoming, and the man he started as.

He wants to tell her he appreciates that, the way she hasn't pushed him on much, only when he's really needed it, the way she's let him find out all about this new new new Doctor, and kept him company in the process.

The words won't come though, and he's about to apologize for that, too, when she points her foot at him, toes angled at the erection tenting the front of his boxer briefs.

"And what's that for?"

He doesn't hesitate, not even a moment, "For you, always for you."

Moving to kneel at her feet, he lifts her legs, spreading them slightly, and shifting into the space he's created.

His eyes skate over her body, so many places he wants to touch, and, if the way she's looking at him is any indication, so many places she wants him to.

"Thought this was about a stolen chocolate bar?" She says when he rests his hands on her thighs and doesn't move further.

"Oh, of course! You're right!" He scratches his fingers up to the top of her knickers. "This is for that, then." He tugs her knickers down, shifting himself up to get them off before returning to his position. "I'm very sorry for nicking that chocolate bar."

She looks down her body, naked on the comforter, and he hopes she appreciates the view half as much as he does

"So you've somehow apologized your way into taking all my clothes off," her tone is light, conversational, and he's always so grateful for that, the way they can just keep being them, even when in striking distance of a shag. He's not sure he could handle it, having to reinvent himself every time they went to the bedroom -- he's done enough reinventing in his life. "What's left to apologize for?"

"Loads, Rose Tyler, just buckets and buckets of things."

Leaning down, he drops his lips to hers, pleased with the way she's allowing him to set the pace, though he knows that won't last for long.

He nips at her bottom lip, before moving to press a kiss to the top one. He tilts his head further, adjusting so he can open his mouth against hers, before sweeping his tongue past her lips.

Kissing Rose is every bit as unpredictable as doing anything else with Rose, and she slips her tongue against his, hands moving to his cheeks as she takes control of the kiss. She gets in a few good, deep, messy swipes of her tongue, and then she's easing off again, her body squirming underneath his.

He uses the control to break from the kiss, pressing a series of them instead down the column of her throat. He traces her collarbone with his tongue, out and back, before moving to the join of her neck and shoulder.

There was -- there is -- a button on the TARDIS that does nothing but cause an uncontrollable shaking of the ship, useful for dislodging errant tagalongs, and this spot is that button on Rose.

He bites down harder than instinct would tell him to, but Rose has told him different before, hands flying to his hair to keep him in place, as she bucks and moans underneath him. It works the same as always, and he focuses on the skin there, sucking and licking and biting, until she's panting below him, a red mark swimming to the surface when he finally pulls away.

"That," he says, and Rose lolls her head on her neck, exposing more skin he can't help pressing a quick kiss to before speaking again, "Is for eating the last biscuit. And then lying about it."

She swats him on the arse, "I knew it!"

He grins at her and slips down her body, pausing to kiss her breasts, tongue tracing the ridge of each nipple in turn, teeth grazing the edges of them as her fingers curl into the skin of his back.

Continuing on, he licks a line down her torso, and his tongue skims the soft, slight swell of her abdomen before he's distracted by the curve of her hipbones, the angles of them as she squirms beneath him. He presses a hard kiss to the one on his left, sucking until there's a mark right at the highest point, and then he repeats the movement on the opposite hip, some ancient part of him simultaneously pleased with the symmetry and horrified at what he's doing.

Her hands move to rest in lightly in his hair, tightening their grip as he moves further still. He looks up, locks their eyes, as he hovers over her, and the smell, the sight, the feel of her, it's all too much, and he can't help but grin.

"Let's call this next bit an apology for the bridge," he says, and it all feels like ages ago now, the fight, the fall out, the path to this making up. "Because I am sorry about it."

She smiles at him, and he speaks again.

"I am not, however, sorry to be locked in here with you, doing this," and he moves lower, tongue swiping slow and deliberate between her legs. She's wet, and the stupid, silly pride he feels every time he gets her that way swims to the surface.

Her fingers are brushing lightly over his head, through his hair, before she moves them to curl around the backs of his ears, and somewhere deep inside of him, a man with a much more prominent set reaches for the touch.

That man, though, didn't have the tongue this one has, and he has the unique sensation of feeling superior to himself. That man would've needed his fingers, too, if they'd ever gotten this far, but this man is going to make Rose come with just his tongue.

He licks against her again, slowly, bottom to top, pausing to circle briefly around her clit, and she arches up into his mouth, trying to force the friction, the pressure she wants. He pulls back with a grin, because he'll give it to her, of course he will, but he's going to take his time first.

"Not yet," he says, and she rolls her head back and forth on the pillow, disagreeing, agreeing, he can't tell, and instead of asking, he moves forward again, tongue dipping inside her as she moans above him.

He can't stop looking at her in this position, eyes darting across her body as her own slip shut. She's beautiful and he doesn't even want to blink, thinks briefly of a planet where the inhabitants never have to, and then he's stroking against her again, in, out, shallow, deep, never setting a rhythm, never pushing her over the edge.

Her back keeps lifting up off the mattress, little half-starts that are a preview of the way she'll rocket up when she comes, grasping at his head for more, for less, shouting profanities and breathing hard.

He steps up the pace, dipping deeper, tongue curling, and everything's so wet, her, him, the patch of fabric he can feel on the front of his boxer briefs, it's sweat and spit and Rose herself and he is never going to get enough.

He darts another glance up at her, and when had he looked away? A mistake not to be repeated.

He can see the soft, rolling sound waves of her ribs, and he's sure if he played them, it would be an opera to bring the Met to its knees.

The curves of her breasts, too, and he lifts his hands from where they'd been resting on her hips, following along with their shallow movements, and cups both breasts in tandem. It distracts him from the rhythm he'd set with his mouth and she notices, batting his hands away, "Now, now, now," she pleads.

He complies, tongue slipping from inside her to begin a steady pulse on her clit, he works at it, speeding the movement, increasing the pressure, suction with his mouth and friction with his tongue and then she's arching up off the bed, keening as she snaps into a near upright position and tugging at his hair.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Her voice is loud, the words punctuating each wave he can feel pulsing through her, and he eases off, gentling his movements, as she squirms first toward him and then away.

He'd be content to stay down here, busying himself with the smooth skin of her thighs, until she's ready for his mouth again, but she's tugging at him, fingers fanning out to get a grip that pulls him to rise over her.

There's no stopping the grin that crawls across his face, the smug, satisfied expression of a job well done, and she laughs at him.

"Your lucky you're so good at that," she says, still trying to catch her breath. "Or that ego would be completely insufferable."

He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, a poor job of clean up that means there's definitely still the taste of her left behind when he leans down to kiss her. She doesn't seem bothered by it, never has, and he busies himself with spreading it across her tongue as she settles his hips more firmly between her legs.

She bucks up into him, the feeling dulled by the thin fabric of his pants, and he shifts off her to remove them.

"You love my ego," he says, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxer briefs and tugging them off. "And you're gonna help make it bigger here in a second."

She rolls her eyes, but spreads her legs, locking them around his hips when he settles on top of her again.

Her hand drops between them, gripping his erection, and he lets out a rough sound at the feel of it. Then she's positioning him, the head of his cock right at her entrance.

"I love you," he says, and he can't contain the grin on his face, the inanity of life, and how happy he is at where his ended up. He pushes forward, sliding into her on a breath. "And that's for not saying it sooner."

She wraps her arms around, tugging him down in a tight hug.

"We got there in the end," she says, voice low in his ear. "And I love you, too."

He tilts his head, turning to press a kiss to her temple, and pushes himself up to brace his weight on his forearms. He rolls his hips once, a grunt half-escaping from his mouth.

"This," he says, and arches into her again, "Is for all the things I haven't done yet."

He sets a hard rhythm, short, fast strokes, the way it always is when he's used his mouth on her first. That winds him up more than nearly anything else, all those noises, the feel of her. In a different life, a different body, he could've come from that alone, the way he's sure she's broadcasting all those feelings and he just doesn't have the hardware to pick them up anymore.

It was a good trade though, he thinks, as her nails dig into the round of his shoulder, her other hand knotted tightly in his hair.

She arches up beneath him, meeting him on his strokes and, oh, it was a fucking brilliant trade.

He shifts, changing the angle enough that the friction's perfect for both of them, and she's calling out underneath him, "Like that, yeah, like that, right there, right there --" and she comes, words lost to shouts and the feel of her body tensing beneath his. He can't hold on, doesn't want to hold on, and then he's pounding into her, sloppy, rough movements that she encourages even as her body still shudders below.

"That feels so fucking good," she's panting the words in his ear and his head spins with the sound of them.

"Yeah?" It's all he can manage, but he wants more, needs more, and she keeps talking as his orgasm builds, twining tighter and tighter.

"Always so good," she says. "It's always so good, love the way you feel, the way you smell, your cock," and she drops her voice, drawing the word out, filthy and perfect, tongue wrapping around the hard consonants, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and she's still going, "I" -- she raises her hips to meet his -- "Love" -- and again -- "Your" -- last one -- "Cock."

He snaps, coming, a long, low grunt, the noise and the feel and the emotion, all of it spreading out in his veins in triple-time as he empties himself into her.

Her fingers scratch across his back as he floats down, dropping his weight to rest on her.

"Apology accepted," she says in his ear, and he grins against the skin of her neck, mouth dropping for one more go at that spot where it joins her shoulder, and she arches into him, body shuddering like he's triggered an aftershock.

She shifts underneath him a few minutes later, after their heartbeats have slowed, and he rolls off of her. She pushes herself up off the bed, a shaky-legged walk that has his ego ballooning again as she makes her way into the en suite.

It's only a short walk to the spare loo, and he forces himself to make it and clean up. They'll probably go to bed for the night now, and he's exhausted enough to want to, but they've been woken up by an emergency from Pete too many times in their short life here to not at least make an effort to put himself back together.

He tries the front door on his walk back from the loo and it's still locked, so even if there is an emergency, they won't be much help.

The room is dark again when he gets back, only the moonlight now, and he can make out Rose on the bed, clad in just her knickers and shifting the covers beneath her as she struggles to get under them without standing back up.

"Here, let me help," he says, and tugs the comforter down as she arches off of it. She slips into the sheets and he joins her, tugging all the covers up around them and rolling to his back so she can pillow her head on his chest.

"Still have half a day of lock in left," she mumbles sleepily into his chest. "Gonna think up more things to apologize for?"

He shifts his head down and presses a kiss to her hair.

"Even if I have to make them up."

fic; doctor who: Sexual Tension in Stasis (part 2/2)

cereal — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 23:39:30 GMT

title: Sexual Tension in Stasis (part 2/2)
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: Ten/TenToo/Rose, together.
rating: Adult.
words: 5,156, this part; 9,839 total.
notes: This was written for the time_and_chips 2012 Advent Calendar! Thank you to gallifreyburning and winterinthetardis for reading this over, and assuring me I wasn't a million miles off-base.
summary/intro: Continues on from part 1 here.

Follow the cut!

"Time!" The other Doctor's voice sounds strained, the words forced out, and when she looks at him, his pupils are wide, his cheeks pink.

The human Doctor shifts off of her, his erection brushing her thigh, and he takes a moment to adjust himself in his jeans before speaking, "I think that went pretty well. Certainly better than you'll do, at least."

Rose's brain is still cloudy with arousal, and really, it's the one going last with the advantage, because she's plenty wound up now. Unless they reconvene in an hour, the human Doctor has set the Time Lord off with a considerable head start. And that, too, is a thrill, that it's her they're trying to affect, her they're trying to seduce. If she woke up now, it would most certainly be a randy morning.

She moves to sit up, shaking her head briefly in an effort to regain some control.

"My turn," the two-hearted Doctor says, rising from the coffee table and reaching out a hand to Rose. She takes it and he tugs her up, pulling her away from the furniture. The human Doctor watches from the sofa, legs splayed wide as he sprawls across the cushions.

"Thought I'd try something different," the Doctor standing with her says. His voice is low, but his duplicate still hears.

"Nothing too different," the other Doctor cuts in. "No --" and he touches his hand to his temple.

"I won't even need it," he meets Rose's eye with a small smile. "Had a lot of time to think about this, you know. This," he brushes his fingers across her forehead, down the side, "Doesn't even factor in until, oh, the fiftieth time, sixtieth, maybe."

Her heart gives a flip at that, the sort of admission she never thought she'd get from this Doctor. She tries to respond, but the words clog in her throat. She wants to tell him she'd thought about it, too, and that human or not, it's more amazing than she can she possibly imagine, already. Instead, she settles for resting a hand over his second heart.

"Ready?" he says, and she shakes her head, quickly unbuttoning his suit jacket. It seems vital, suddenly, that she be able to feel him properly. If this is all she'll ever have, she wants one less thing between them.

He looks at her, amused, as she pushes the material from his shoulders and tugs it down his arms. When it drops to the floor, she bends to pick it up, folding it lengthwise and tossing it toward an end of the sofa. It lands near the Doctor and he waves a finger at it, muttering, "Should make you give me that, too."

Now standing in front of her in just his shirt and tie, the Time Lord Doctor tries again, "Ready?" This time she nods.

He winks at her, quickly, and it's almost enough to make her knees buckle, but then he's there, his hands on her waist, and his head lowers toward her.

His mouth working against hers gently, he keeps the touch light, kissing her top lip and then her bottom lip as he tilts his head for a better angle. She keeps with his pace, returning the movements, only opening her mouth when he does. He lets his tongue join in slowly, a few brief glances against her lips before she sweeps her own tongue out to meet his. His hands slide down from her waist to settle on her hips, and he tightens his grip as he begins to walk her backward, sliding his tongue into her mouth as she allows him to guide her.

Her back meets the wall next to the bookcase, and then he's everywhere, pressed up against her from head to toe. There's the feel of muscle and bone beneath cotton, and she moves her hands to cup his face as he arches his hips into her. She knows what he looks like under his trousers, duplicates to the human eye, but she wants to touch, to experience, and as he laps at her tongue with his own, she skates a hand down his back, landing on his arse.

Tugging him further into her makes her gasp, and she pulls her mouth from his. He moves it immediately to her neck, to that same spot between her shoulder and neck, the one his duplicate had exposed earlier. Now though, the mouth is cool, a contrast to her heated skin, and she whimpers at the feeling.

He works his hands between them, undoing the rest of the buttons on her shirt, and he whines when his fingers meet the material of her camisole instead of the skin of her stomach.

"Serves you right, all those layers" she mumbles, plucking at his Oxford, and the t-shirt underneath. She can feel his grin against her neck, and then his hands snake under the camisole, smoothing up to her waist.

There's the rustle of movement from the sofa and she tenses in anticipation of time being called. When it doesn't come, she opens her eyes to see the human Doctor standing next to his duplicate. The Time Lord pulls back from her neck to glance at the other man, but he doesn't remove his hands from under her camisole.

Another look passes between them and then she hears the echoed growl of identical voices.

"It's a draw."

The human Doctor kisses her, as the other goes back to her neck, a flurry of hands tugging her blouse down her arms.

It's nearly overwhelming, trying to parse whose fingers are edging the tops of her breasts, whose leg is slipping between hers. There are clues, textures and temperatures, but it's distracting, and she jerks her mind back, forcing herself to concentrate on the feelings, not who's creating them.

More shifting, and they're off the wall now, shuffling toward the hallway, toward their bedroom. It's too hectic, three sets of legs, and she needs to understand what's happening, needs to make sure they do, so she pulls back, and stops walking.

She watches them, and there's that duplicate look again, heavy lidded, and half drunk, and so fucking sexy that she almost gives it up.

"That," she looks at the Time Lord Doctor, his wet mouth and dark gaze, "down there, is our bedroom. Is that where you want to go?"

He nods, slowly, eyes never leaving Rose's.

"And is that where you want to go?" This time she says it to the human Doctor and he, too, nods, keeping focused on Rose.

"I want to, too," she says, with more courage than she feels, "But you have to know -- you have to realize -- you'll be in there together. Is that going to be all right, as well?"

They both glance to the side, at each other, in unison once more, and really, there's a point where that might be weird, but she hasn't reached it yet, "Yes."

Joy bubbles up in her chest, that they're going to do this, this thing she could never have planned, never have hoped for, regardless of whatever silly discussions had been had in this universe.

"Fantastic!" She shouts, and scrambles down the hall, tugging her camisole up over her head and darting through the bedroom door. She pitches the cloth aside with one hand, turns the light on with the other, and has just enough time to jump on the edge of the bed as the Doctors join her.

Four separate eyes stare at her breasts, the slight bounce of them as she shimmies further up the bed, and she thinks, briefly, that she should feel self-conscious, but there's no room for it. Instead, she feels powerful, and sexy, completely in command.

She laughs, delighted by it all, and points a separate index finger at both of them, "This is a topless bed."

Her Doctor grins, grabbing his jumper and t-shirt and stripping it off in one go, before bounding onto the bed and swooping down to kiss her. She's struck by an impulse though, something she's always wanted to do, and she pulls back after only a few seconds.

"Wait, wait, wait," she says, leaping from the bed and crossing to where the Time Lord still stands, unbuttoning his cuffs with an incredulous look on his face. She knows the feeling, can't believe they're here, he's here, and she leans up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

When she drops back down, she brings her hands to his tie, unknotting it slowly. She makes a show of it, tongue between her teeth for the Time Lord, and a little arse wiggle for his duplicate on the bed. When it's loose, she slips it from the collar, dropping it deliberately to the floor before moving on to the buttons of his shirt. This is quicker work, only hampered by the pair of hands that have risen to play with her breasts, fingers dancing lightly around the nipples. It's distracting and amazing, and he's drawing circles now, coiling the spring in her abdomen tighter and tighter and tighter.

He shrugs out of the button-down when she's finally done, crossing his arms to grab the bottom of his t-shirt and tug that up and over his head, too. It seems silly to get this far and not finish the job, so as his arms raise, she moves to the clasp of his trousers. She slides it free with the very tips of her fingers, avoiding where he's straining against the material. He makes a low sound in his throat, stilling her hands and thrusting up. With a smirk, she gives in, cupping him fully before carefully lowering his zip.

Pausing her progress, he leans over to shed his trainers and socks, and then waves a hand in the air for her to proceed, topping it off a bob of his eyebrows. She leaves his boxer briefs on, a dark grey pair that she's nearly certain her human Doctor owns, too. When she turns to look at him, he's shucked his jeans, down to just his pants. His are red, and at least for the moment, she'll be able to tell them apart. He's got a hand on the fabric overtop of his erection, palm rubbing circles almost absent-mindedly, except for the way he's staring at her.

There are hands at her waist now, fingers skirting along the top of her jeans, and she feels the pressure release as they undo the button and lower the zip. It's one of her tighter pairs, and she reaches down to help, moving her legs to shimmy out of the denim. The Doctor snags her knickers at the last second, tugging them down to meet the pool of fabric at her feet, before helping her step out of it. She'd shed her shoes when they came back into the house earlier, and this last movement leaves her completely bare before them.

Again, she's only uncertain about the absence of uncertainty. Shouldn't she feel embarrassed or anxious? There are nerves, sure, but they're the good kind, the can't-wait-to-see-where-this-goes kind. Like stepping out of the TARDIS -- or a zeppelin, more recently -- and into an adventure.

"Looks like he could use some help over there," the Time Lord Doctor says quietly, stooping low so she feels the flutter of his breath on her skin. He nods to his duplicate on the bed. The small circles he'd been making with his palm have stopped, instead his hands rest at his sides where he's propped against the pillows.

It feels like a time for daring, or a time for dares, and she smiles at the human Doctor before turning to raise her eyebrows at the one beside her, "So help him."

She's expecting a protest, or at least a funny look, but instead he shrugs, and gives her a smirk, before sauntering over to kneel next to the other Doctor on the bed. The effect of the two of them, one in profile, the other on his back, is completely devastating. She can't decide where to look. All that skin, long limbs and angles, really great hair. And, of course, lower, to the proof that it's not only her wrapped up in all this. She wants to be wrapped up even further.

There's a sexier way to get across the room, she's sure -- the Doctor had done it a few moments ago -- but she's impatient, walking to the bed in a few fast strides and kneeling on the foot of the mattress.

"He's going to help you," Rose says, eyes fixed on the human Doctor. "And I'm going to watch."

She holds her breath as he nods in response, and then the Time Lord Doctor lays a hand flat on the abdomen of the other.

"Bet I could give you that half-stupid look, too," he says, and Rose wonders if it's for her benefit, the speaking out loud. Either way, she's incredibly grateful, she'll write her thank you note in the morning, have a fruit basket shipped out to the TARDIS.

For a moment it's quiet again, and the rain outside echoes through the room, the muffled patter as it hits the window. Then, so slowly she imagines she can hear the scratch of nails on skin, the Time Lord Doctor curls his hand into the skin of the other, dragging his fingers through the hair below his belly button. He edges under the elastic of the other man's pants and Rose tries to track the motions underneath the fabric. The second he gets a grip though, her eyes flicker up to the human Doctor's face, the way his mouth drops open and a soft breath escapes on a sound.

"Look, you're halfway there," the Time Lord says, moving his hand languidly, up and down, up and down. The rhythm is hypnotic and Rose matches it, rubbing her thighs together to try and gather some friction. "Just need those droopy eyelids." She watches as he swipes his thumb across the head of the other man's cock, where a small damp spot has appeared on the fabric. "Ah, there they are."

The human Doctor lets out a groan, the noise forming around a word.

"Wanker," he says, and the Time Lord grins.

"Seems so," and he tightens his hand.

She decides then that she needs more, more for them, more for her, more more more, and now. Crawling up the bed, she straddles her Doctor's legs, dropping her weight and shifting forward until she meets his erection, and his duplicate's hand.

"Do it again," she says, and the Time Lord leans to kiss her as he complies. He twists his hand, shifting his fist so that his knuckles are brushing against Rose, right where she wants them, if not the fabric of her Doctor's pants. She pulls back from the kiss, and rises more fully onto her knees, "Lift up," she says, and taps the hip of the Doctor underneath her. He does, arching into her with a wicked look in his eye. She sighs at the feeling, nearly willing to be deterred, to let it happen like this, through his pants, riding him and his duplicate's fist, until she comes. It probably wouldn't take long.

Instead she moves her hands in front of her, working the fabric over his erection and the hand that covers it. She shoves the material down until it's through the bracket of her thighs, and then reaches behind herself to finish the job, drawing his pants to his ankles and enjoying the flutter kick he gives to get them off.

Her eyes are fixed on where the Doctors are joined, the way one is holding the other, a looser fist now, and it suddenly seems ungrateful to not have them both naked. She drags her eyes away, to where the Time Lord is still encased in his boxer briefs. Hooking her index finger under the waistband, she gives it a little snap. "Yours, too."

He moves off the bed, letting go of his duplicate and yanking his pants off, before resuming his former position, right down to the placement of his knuckles. There now, everyone on equal footing.

The Time Lord starts up his rhythm again, dragging his knuckles wetly against Rose, as she squirms and shifts. He draws her toward him with his free hand, fingers tangling in her hair as he meets her in a sloppy kiss. He pulls back after a moment, meeting her eye and lowering his hand to find one of hers. When he does, he moves it to his own erection, curling her fingers into a fist around it and working her into the rhythm he's using on the other.

The Doctor beneath her groans at the sight, eyes riveted to where Rose's hand is slowly pumping a cock that isn't his own, but looks identical. He raises a hand to toy with one of Rose's breast, the movement is clumsy, he's distracted, but there's muscle memory, and his fingers coast with it, remembering how she likes to be touched.

Slick skin and needy noises, and this isn't going to be enough, it's amazing, fantastic, completely fucking brilliant, and she could stay here, hanging on this ledge for years if she'd already come once, but the tension is spiraling so tightly, it's starting to become uncomfortable. She either needs to release it, or let it ratchet back down, away from all the -- stimuli. She'd definitely prefer the former.

She moves swiftly, batting the Time Lord's hand from his duplicate, and shuffling forward to position herself over the human Doctor. She releases the Time Lord to steady herself, and her eyes dart between them before drifting shut as she sinks down slowly.

"Gonna need a minute," the Doctor beneath her grits out, and she doesn't miss the self-satisfied smirk on the other's face.

"Only gonna be a minute," she says, and rockets into a frantic rhythm, setting the pace that will get her there quickest. The Doctor groans beneath her, and she hears the Time Lord at his side, "Hold out," he tells him.

She forces her eyes open, sees the challenging look he's got on his face. The human Doctor lets out another noise as she continues to move, sounding more pained this time, "You better fucking make it worth it then," he hisses at the Time Lord.

"Oh, I will," and he tilts his head, tongue resting on his front teeth like he's considering all the ways he could do just that. She's so close, so goddamn close, and as her eyes slip shut again, she feels pressure on her clit. It's not quite the movement she's used to, and she quickly decides that means it's the Time Lord. It's enough, somehow, that thought, and she tumbles into a shuddering orgasm that both Doctors do their best to draw out.

When she finally settles, the Doctor is still hard inside her, and she slips off of him as gently as possible, crushing down the urge to rock against him one more time. She wants to see what the Time Lord has in mind, and it wouldn't be fair to deny herself, or her Doctor, that part.

She shuffles back down until she's straddling the Doctor's thighs once more and then, to give the other Doctor more room to work, she just keeps going, until she's perched over his shins. It's uncomfortable, not a good place to rest her weight, and she shifts, spreading his legs, so she can kneel between them instead.

It's a perfect view as the Time Lord stretches his body out, resting his weight on one arm as the other lifts to place a hand back on his duplicate’s erection. He strokes a few times, pausing to realize the skin there is slicker now, from her, and he shoots her a filthy grin, eyes lighting up.

"Not how I thought I'd find out what you taste like," he tells her, "But -- when in Pete's World," and he leans forward in a flash, mouth enveloping his duplicate’s cock. The human Doctor shouts, arching up before flopping backing into the pillows.

If she'd thought the view was good before, it's nothing compared to now, where she can see her Doctor, eyes shut, head moving wildly, and the other Doctor, mouth working just as restlessly on him. He's brought his hand up, too, gripping the base through the circle of his fingers, tight friction on every stroke.

She can't even imagine how that must feel, not from someone who learns what you like and learns how to do it, but from someone who knows, someone with firsthand experience -- from yourself.

If the noises are anything to go by, he'd have trouble explaining it, stuttering through groans and directives. He's always chatty in bed, but it's harsher somehow than he is with her.

"Don't you dare fucking stop," he finally gets out, his fourth try, finally not lost to just the curse.

The Time Lord makes a noise around his cock, an argument or an agreement, Rose can't tell, but the human Doctor's hand flies to the back of the other's head, keeping him in position.

Rose can feel the edge begin to build within herself again, as the Doctor below her grows frantic for release. She reaches her arm out, running her fingernails down his side, starting at his ribs and then sharp across the ridge of his hipbone. She hears the Doctor's voice, "Yes," and a shout, then he's bucking his hips, coming, the movement growing shallow as the Time Lord swallows him down.

It's too much to process as the Doctor next to her rears his head back up, and ducks immediately back down, pressing his mouth to his duplicate's at a furious pace. She can see their tongues working together through gaps in the kiss, imagines what that must taste like, and then she's tugging at the Time Lord's hair, bringing his lips to her own.

She feels a noise low in his chest, and then the human Doctor is shifting away, pulling his legs free as he moves to the other side of the mattress. The Time Lord grabs Rose by the biceps, shifting her into the space her Doctor has vacated in one fluid movement. She has a moment to snap her head to the side, shooting a grin to where the other Doctor lies sated, watching them from his side, head on a pillow, a loose smile playing on his lips.

Then the Time Lord is between her legs, pulling them apart so he can position himself. He glances to her face, and then lower. He nods, like he's a made a decision, and then shifts quickly further down the bed, "Just one," he says, and she can't respond because then his tongue is there, one long, slow lick, ending at her clit. "Well, two," she hears him mumble and he does it again, pausing this time to dip inside her before lapping up to her clit and flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

When he moves back up, face looming over hers, his mouth is wet, teeth shining behind parted lips, and he makes a show of licking at all of it, before dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Are you quite done?" The voice from the pillow beside hers is sleepy and amused.

"Hardly," the Doctor above her says, shifting and positioning himself with his hand.

He slides into her slowly and it's so, so different, and almost exactly the same. He makes a few long, slow strokes, dropping his head down to kiss her at the same pace, but he's a little too in control, and has been the whole night. She shifts her hands down to his arse, pulling him fully into her quickly and arching her hips up to meet his. She forces the pace, short, fast thrusts, and he loses hold of her mouth. She tilts her head, moving right for the spot on his neck that started all this, and sucks at the skin roughly before smoothing over it with her tongue.

She's suspended in the moment, the feel of one Doctor above her, the other to her side, pressed up against her arm, the smell of both of them, the tang of sweat on the Time Lord Doctor's skin, and she's just about to wonder if it's his when he hitches her leg, hooking his arm under her knee and driving deeper into her. It smothers every thought and he only has to do it a few more times. She can hear both of them, coaxing her, words of endearment and words of filth and I want you to come, let me see you come, and she does, gasping and arching up, limbs tightening around the Doctor as she hurries to repay the favor.

"Your turn, your turn," she's panting, "Go, oh, fuck, come," and he follows on, hips pressed tight to hers as he grunts the sound of his release into her neck.

He collapses onto her, and she takes the weight, limbs still curled around him to keep his body in place. The Doctor to her side moves closer, throwing a leg out to tangle with theirs as he slides his arm around the Time Lord's back.

Rose is overcome with feeling and the crash of adrenaline and she feels the sharp sting of tears suddenly, her body trying to find an outlet. She blinks them back, burying her face in the neck of the Doctor on top of her before gently shifting him off.

She lies, boneless and content, as the Doctors each take a turn in the restroom. When the second one returns, she slips off the bed and into the loo herself.

The sight that greets her is an unwelcome one, both Doctors dressed and sitting grimly on the foot of the bed.

"Time to go?" She asks, even though she knows the answer, can see it lurking in the mood of the room.

Both Doctors nod slowly, and she's struck with a silly impulse, darting back into the bathroom. She grabs a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, rushing back out into the room and shoving them at the Time Lord.

"To remember us by," she says, and his responding smile is so sweet that she carves off an extra piece of her heart, and gives that to him, too.

Rose dresses slowly, stealing extra moments to look at both of them. Her Doctor is showing the Time Lord around their bedroom, knick-knacks and debris, she watches both of them linger on the small packet of birth control pills on her nightstand before moving on to the photos framed on the walls and dressers.

She remembers each one, wants to tell him thank you, that they're doing great, and see? This proves it. But she holds it back. They'd talked earlier, she doesn't want to make it harder, on any of them. Wants to let this exist like it was, like it is.

When she's finally ready, her Doctor leads them back through the house and out the back door to the yard. The rain has stopped, leaving behind mud and damp, and their feet squish as they walk to the TARDIS.

They stop in front of the doors, and Rose lays a hand there, saying a proper goodbye this time.

"You can come in," the Time Lord says. "If you want."

She shakes her head and watches the human Doctor do the same.

"Might never leave," she says.

"Would that be so --"

She cuts him off, "Don't. We can't."

They've stood themselves in a triangle, and the Time Lord steps back from it, moving to unlock the TARDIS. His feet squelch as he turns and Rose looks down to see his footprints, left behind in the mud. Her Doctor notices, too, and grabs the Time Lord's arm.

"Let me see the sonic," he says, and the other Doctor reaches into his jacket, pulling it out and handing it over, nodding like they're in agreement.

"Rose," her Doctor says, "Take a step back. Carefully." She does, and he does the same, fiddling with a setting on the screwdriver. He aims it toward the ground and Rose watches as the earth seems to crystallize, preserving their footprints, all turned toward each other.

She steps gently around it, stopping the Time Lord as he opens the TARDIS doors. Tugging him down by the lapels, she kisses him slowly, and when she pulls away, drops a quick kiss to that spot on his neck, too.

There's something in her that wants the words properly this time, but he looks so sad already, she doesn't want to pull at it, and she steps back again, letting him go.

The human Doctor moves in then, hand out to return the sonic. The other man waves him off, "Keep it," and her Doctor grins, delighted, shoving it in the back pocket of his jeans. He sobers then, cupping the Time Lord's jaw as he gets close to his face, "Tell her," he murmurs, and presses a quick kiss to the other's lips, before giving him a light swat at the back of the head. "Now, you dumbo."

The Time Lord nods, and turns back to her, "He's right, I should. And even if it's not my last chance to say it, even if I accidentally stumble back here three Tuesdays from now and I'm an entirely different man -- Rose Tyler, I love you."

Warmth envelops her chest, the feeling blooming out and flooding her veins as she grabs him into a hug, and mumbles against his neck, grin pressing into the skin, "Quite right, too." She pulls back, cupping his face, and echoes his words, "I love you."

He ducks down for one more kiss, and then he's stepping through the TARDIS doors. She gets a glimpse of the time rotor, the soft glow, and she's glad she saw it, glad to feel like he's got someone watching out for him.

With a soft wave, he shuts the doors, and she imagines the movements in her head, up the ramp, to the console, long fingers working, and right as she's paced it, the TARDIS vworps to life.

The remaining Doctor steps to her side, hand moving to grasp hers and parallel the memory.

As the ship fades from view this time, her eyes drop to the ground, just barely visible in the predawn light. She can see their footprints there, all three sets, and she shifts to stand back in hers as the Doctor takes his place. The other set looks lonely though, and the Doctor next to her notices, too. He darts away, back toward the house, and when he returns, he's clutching a banana ice lollie. Laying it across the empty prints, he smiles.

"He deserves it," the Doctor says, and Rose couldn't agree more.

fic; doctor who: Sexual Tension in Stasis (part 1/2)

cereal — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 23:34:06 GMT

title: Sexual Tension in Stasis (part 1/2)
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: Ten/TenToo/Rose, together.
rating: Adult.
words: 4,683, this part; 9,839 total.
notes: This was written for the time_and_chips 2012 Advent Calendar, and is actually already complete, part 2 follows on right after, I was just hampered by lj's character limit. Thank you to gallifreyburning and winterinthetardis for reading this over, and assuring me I wasn't a million miles off-base.

summary/intro: The metaphor extends, the needle tripping ever closer to the end of the disc, and he’ll need to go back to that other universe once it’s played through.

Follow the cut!

The science of it is lost on her.

There's an explanation they both try, something about a record and a needle and how even played incorrectly, the instructions for the music are still on the vinyl. The TARDIS found the groove, they tell her. And some warped and backward symphony lands the Doctor -- the two-hearted one -- back in Pete's World.

The metaphor extends, the needle tripping ever closer to the end of the disc, and he'll need to go back to that other universe once it's played through.

It's that part that she understands -- this is temporary, and a mistake, and she should enjoy it while it lasts.

And she would, if only they'd let her.

The words explode from her Doctor almost as soon as they're seated in the living room. A babble, a tirade, and a thank you all wrapped up into something she's definitely heard before.

"Thought you'd stay as far from us as possible, if you ever made it back here," the half-human Doctor says. "All that blood and anger and revenge flying around, a Time Lord could get himself hurt."

There's more to this speech, she knows, and he's got his mouth open to give it, but a look passes between the two Doctors and instead the other speaks.

"Yes, I could," he says and he's looking right at Rose.

She thinks about her own speech, the things she's rehearsed, things she's said to this human him, misdirected and properly directed and she just -- lets it go.

"I don't want to do this," she says, and they both look at her, twin sets of wide eyes from either direction.

There's only the one place to sit in the room, a big sectional sofa, and they've all staked out a portion, everybody on their own cushion, everybody with their own turf. And it's not what she wants out of this night.

She doesn't know what, exactly, she does want, only that it's not this tension and anger -- because she's not angry anymore, not really. Neither of them are. Too busy being happy for that.

Or, when there is anger now, it's so much more domestic. Fights about the laundry, and forgotten bills, which one of them brought that hacking flu into the flat first, why it isn't appropriate for him to sign Tony out of school for a field trip to the planetarium -- even if she meets them there, and they discover a star.

There'd been the old sort of anger for too long, shouting matches about making decisions for her, nights where he slept on this very sofa, cup after cup of tea and sympathy at her mum's, and she'd put it to rest.

They'd put it to rest.

"I've told the Doctor," she gestures to the end of the sofa, where the human one sits. "I've said everything I need to say. And you know what? It wasn't a surprise to him, any of it. So," this time she gestures to the Time Lord, "You just take a moment, you imagine what I'd say to you, and we move on."

He nods, and leaves his head bowed, staring at a corner of the coffee table for a few long moments before speaking again.

"What if there are things I need to say to you?"

There's a spike of heat in her chest, a burning sort of fury. How dare he do this again, a clock counting down and everything on his terms?

"I've said them," the human Doctor cuts in. "I've said them all." He glares at the Time Lord, a short, pointed thing, and then his eyes dart to Rose, softer now, and worried.

The other Doctor swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, as the corners of his mouth turn down.

Well, no, this isn't what she wants either.

"He has," she confirms, and then ducks her head to catch his eye, smiling just a little. "An apology wouldn't go unheard though."

The Doctor's lips twitch, a smile to match her own, "Well then, Rose Tyler -- I'm sorry."

"And do you know what you're apologizing for?"

From the other end of the couch, her Doctor lets out a short bark of laughter, cutting it off when she raises an eyebrow at him.

"I do," the two-hearted Doctor says. "I do know. And I'm sorry."

There now, that's a bit better.

"So sorry?" She grins fully this time, teasing him as the tension in the air splinters and cracks.

"So sorry," he says.

"Great, that's all settled then," Rose nods, stuffing the rest of it down -- the matter is closed, as much as it'll ever be. "What'll we do now? Pop 'round to my mum's for tea?"

A look of horror spills over the Time Lord's face and she watches, amused, as he tugs at his ear and tries to fight it off.

"Well, if that's -- if that's what you want, sure, tea, with Jackie," he says. "Exactly what I want to do with my time in this universe. Love your mum, sounds brilliant."

She laughs, "Of course that's not what I want, you daft alien. Although, she had a few things to say to you, as well. Best take a second and imagine those, too."

The Time Lord Doctor shudders, meeting his duplicate's eye as he dips his head in confirmation. Rose imagines it as something like, yes, it was as terrible as you're imagining. Yes, my cheek still stings when the weather gets cold.

The looks between the two of them, though, not only now in the flat, but earlier, too, make her wonder.

Stumbling across their overgrown backyard -- he can handle the most esoteric technology Torchwood could ever hope to secure, but a simple Earth lawnmower eludes him every time -- there'd been a moment right as the TARDIS doors had opened. Her Doctor had stopped, before the flurry of noise and hands and get in here before the neighbors wake up, and met the other Doctor's eye.

It was like something passing between them, a whole conversation without words.

She's familiar with that, of course, with knowing another person well enough to fill in the gaps and the blanks, to predict and hold a dialogue in the space of a brief silence.

If you eat that, you'll get a stomach ache.

Five more minutes and we can go.

No, I'm not wearing knickers and the coat room is empty.

But this, between the Doctors, had seemed more somehow. Not only predicting, not only context, but more.

And now she wonders if they, too, have said all they need to say, and she just hasn't listened.

Couldn't listen.

She wants to confirm it, needs to make sure that whatever happens tonight, they make it about love and acceptance and peace, and not old wounds, however large the scars they'd left.

She slaps her hands to her thighs, breaking the silence, "And is there anything you two need to say to each other?"

The human Doctor tosses her a lopsided grin, like he knows exactly what she's doing. And he probably does.

There's an ongoing joke between them with her car -- how she's never sure it's locked until she clicks the remote and the horn chirps. He's explained a million times that the sound has nothing to do with actual lock, that they're separate functions and still, she listens every time. Still, she needs the noise.

The Time Lord Doctor taps his temple, "Think it's been said."

Her Doctor nods in agreement, but she wants to push it a little more, wants to know what that means. Is it telepathy, and they had talked?

Or being the same man, and not needing to?

She opens her mouth again, ready to plead for some clarity in the middle of murky waters, when there's a knock on the door.

The Time Lord Doctor raises his eyebrows and she can see the wheels spinning -- are they in the habit of guests at 11 at night?

"Just the pizza," her Doctor says, rising to get his wallet from its spot on the kitchen counter.

Rose had forgotten they'd even ordered it, out late babysitting Tony -- she'd called it in on the drive home. They had barely gotten through the door when they'd heard the TARDIS in the backyard.

A few minutes later and they're back in their original spots on the sofa, a cheese pizza giving off steam on the coffee table, and a pile of napkins beside it.

"Cheese? Plain cheese? Really?" The two-hearted Doctor is peering at the pizza like it's going to give a very boring lecture.

"Not everything has to be bells and whistles all the time, Doctor," Rose says, and leans forward to pull a slice away and onto a napkin. The cheese is too hot, slipping and stretching, and she catches it with her fingers, piling it back on the slice. There's still a thin thread of it, curled around her knuckle and, without thought, she darts the finger to her lips, sucking it into her mouth quickly.

When she looks back up, both Doctors are staring at her.

The Time Lord Doctor clears his throat, "Right, well, of course not, bells and whistles are hardly edible. Except on --"

"-- Refurlia V," her Doctor finishes. "You should see their sporting events, Rose. The entire planet nearly rioted during the World Cup -- the official took a snack break and ate his whistle. Couldn't make a proper call the rest of the match."

They continue like this, co-telling stories, through more than half the pizza. There's a switch at some point, where it becomes Rose and the human Doctor talking about Pete's World and their experiences here. The Time Lord Doctor listens on, something like jealousy occasionally stealing across his face before he smothers it down.

It makes Rose's stomach flip, she could never stand to see the Doctor in pain, either of them, but there's a small amount of pride, too. They've made a life here, a completely brilliant life, however it began, and it is something to be jealous of -- even without time and space at their disposal.

There had been nothing to drink in the house except beer and water, and as the room starts to grow warm, Rose collects the beer bottles from the table, returning with water for all of them.

Her Doctor is in the middle of a story, one of his favorites, about nicking Plondirian ink from the Torchwood vaults and convincing Jackie he'd taken Tony to get a tattoo. The ink had stayed on for days, her mum scrubbing away at Tony's forearm, as he and the Doctor giggled. The Doctor had finally given over the solvent a week later, when her mum grabbed him by the hair and announced she was cutting it in retribution.

"Had to give it up," the Doctor says. "My hair doesn't grow as fast now, couldn't take the risk."

Rose laughs, "What are you talking about? Your hair grows like a weed!"

The Doctor shrugs, "It used to be faster."

Rose is startled by this, something he'd clearly figured out, carried around with him, and never thought to share. She wonders how many other differences there are -- she knows about the big ones, of course, but it's still always a shock when she discovers the tiny things.

Six months ago, she came home to find him eating a pear and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the other hand, the first time he willingly put on a pair of jeans, they didn't leave the bedroom until the sun had risen. Even seeing him wear them tonight, and the striped jumper he's topped them off with, gives her a little thrill. She's fine with the differences, most of the time.

The Time Lord Doctor's thoughts must have taken a similar turn because he says, "Are there a lot of differences like that then?" He gestures to his chest, the right side, "Beyond the obvious, of course. Never been anything like this before, I'm curious."

Her Doctor shrugs again, "They sort of sneak up on you. Dental hygiene, for one. You know, you always hear how often humans need to brush their teeth, but it's another thing entirely when you're living it."

Rose leans to nudge the Time Lord Doctor, gesturing at the other, "You should smell the morning breath on this one."

The Doctor looks affronted, straightening his jumper, "Doesn't seem to stop you from kissing me, waking up all randy! What do you dream about exactly?"

She grins, bypassing the dream comment because he knows full well what her dreams are about, they'd broken the headboard just last week bringing one into reality. "Yeah, anywhere but the mouth! You think I found that spot on your neck on purpose? Pure luck, that. Just avoiding the odor."

The Time Lord's eyes have gone wide, hand tugging at his ear, awkward and nervous, "Yes, well, spot on your neck, there's another for the differences column."

Her Doctor leans forward abruptly, squinting at the other one, eyes fixed on his neck, "No, no, bet you've got that. Think it's a trick of this regeneration, not the human thing."

"I wouldn't know," the Time Lord Doctor says, and he stops fidgeting with his hand, dropping it gracelessly to his lap.

Rose starts to feel like she did right before dimension cannon jumps, the pins and needles of a limb asleep simmering under every inch of her skin. It was a sign that wherever she was going, she'd never been there before, and all she could do was hope she'd land somewhere safe.

"You still don't know?" Her Doctor says, as he settles back into the sofa cushions, but Rose can tell the ease of the movement is forced. He's undoubtedly invested in the answer.

"No, I still don't know. How could you think -- you should know," the Doctor stumbles through the sentence, picking up words and discarding them immediately. "It's not -- there hasn't been anyone else. There isn't anyone else."

It's Rose's turn to lean forward, as she shifts toward the two-hearted Doctor. "He told me about Donna, I'm sorry."

There's a moment of silence and then Rose presses on.

"But I thought you'd have found someone," she says. "Plenty of people out there that could use a good look at the stars."

He nearly winces, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I've travelled with a few people, here and there, but I meant -- there hasn't been anyone I, well, I mean --"

From the other side of the sofa, her Doctor cuts in, "He means love, Rose."

Rose and the other Doctor turn toward him, heads swiveling in tandem, and then the Time Lord is stammering again.

"Yes, well, no one who might alert me to any, um, sensitive spots on my neck, at least," he says. "So, no, I don't know about that."

The words form so quickly, tumbling from Rose's mouth before she can stop them, "Would you like to?"

There's a moment of clarity where she can hear everything in the space it takes for him to respond -- a car driving by, the kitchen clock ticking, fat drops of rain beginning to fall outside, it's all so loud.

"Would I like to what?" The Time Lord Doctor says, and the other Doctor laughs.

It's an out, if she wants it, and she meets her Doctor's eye, weighing whether to take it. He gives her a small smile, an even smaller nod, and she feels her resolve solidify. They'd talked about it, of course -- late nights and dark bedrooms, whispers of would you ever with giggling confessions -- but here, in their living room, as what-ifs swim to life, she'd needed the confirmation.

"Would you like to know," and here she speaks slower, drawing out every word, "If you've got a spot on your neck that lights you up like a pinball machine?"

The Time Lord Doctor swallows, she sees the movement in his throat, "Well, what I want and what I get are usually two vastly different things."

Rose shifts, pulling up to kneel on the sofa and edge closer to him, "Not tonight. Tonight, if you want it, you can have it."

He moves toward her instinctively, his thigh pressing against her knee, before backing down.

"Doesn't it belong to someone else?" And his eyes dart across the sofa, to the human Doctor.

Rose deliberately switches pronouns, ducking down to catch his gaze, "She doesn't belong to anyone, Doctor."

He still looks unsure, but whether it's because he doesn't want to or because he feels he's not allowed, Rose can't tell.

But her Doctor has told her many times that the desire was never a question, it was always there, a steady current under every interaction. She just has to make him feel like he could, and like he should, let it surface.

The old, or rather, young, Rose Tyler dove into situations head first -- a pattern the Doctor reinforced, but this new Rose Tyler is strategic. Torchwood missions, family dinners, parallel universes, it's all about assessing the situation and overcoming it.

It's not the most romantic of seductions -- catalogue his anxieties and dismantle them -- but then, theirs was always a different sort of romance. Dates to watch her planet burn, chips, and a police box -- the courtship of a Time Lord.

"If you're worried about the Doctor," she finally says, "He'll tell you himself -- it's okay."

Her Doctor nods from the end of the sofa, addressing his duplicate, "You don't deserve it -- her -- I don't either. But she loves us anyway. And she's good, brilliant, in fact, at showing it. Let her show you."

There's the tiniest of movements from the two-hearted Doctor, a twitch of the head that could only generously be called a nod.

"I missed that -- did you say something?" She lets her tongue poke between her teeth on a grin, trying to put him at ease.

He nods again, more pronounced this time, "Yes."

"Yes you said something? Or yes you want --"

There's a chorus of her name, "Rose," the same inflection, the same voice, in stereo, and she can't help but grin again.

"Fantastic…" she moves forward, bracing her hand on the Time Lord's shoulder for leverage, "…is what you're going to be saying when I'm done. Knock you back a whole regeneration, this spot."

It's a bravado she doesn't quite feel, but he seems grateful, and returns it.

"We'll see about that, Rose Tyler. No human hormones weighting my dice," he says, and cuts a smirk toward her Doctor.

"Oh, we'll get to your dice, too. Don't you worry." And then she's moving closer, fingers sweeping into the hair at the base of his neck. It's soft here, no product like on top, and shorter than she's used to, but she finds purchase all the same, angling his head gently away to reveal his neck. She sweeps her thumb over the spot first, feeling the twin pulses rabbiting under the skin.

She moves slowly then, nudging against his ear with her nose. He smells almost the same as what she's used to, just a hint of spice, but there's something missing -- her Doctor smells a little bit sweet, too -- sweat and salt and warm human skin.

"Ready?" her voice is quiet, and she can feel the heat of her breath where it glances off his skin. He's slumped toward her, shoulders drooping, and they tense as she moves her lips to his neck.

There's an absence of taste, nothing she can describe, it's like a glass of water, and she opens her mouth to get more of it, lips moving against his skin. A few inches away she feels the motion of his Adam's apple bobbing, starkly apparent as he holds the rest of himself rigid. She tilts her head, repositioning her lips, nipping lightly at the skin before smoothing her tongue over it. His head drops further to the side at that, forcing her fingers deeper into his hair as she bears some of the weight.

She ties it all together then, kissing, sucking, licking, biting, and for a moment there's only the wet sounds of mouth against skin, and then finally, finally, he moans. A quiet thing, muffled by the way he's got his jaw clamped shut, but it's there, and she wants to hear it again.

Moving her lips slowly, she kisses away from his pulse up to the corner of his jaw, and then his earlobe. She runs her tongue lightly along the edge of it and then back to the pressure point behind it as he shudders, hand jerking up to clutch at her waist. His fingers fist into the cotton of blouse as she traces her tongue back to his jaw, pressing one final, wet kiss to to the underside before pulling away.

It's not worth pretending that she's unaffected, her entire body feels flushed, something fizzing and warm slipping through her veins, and she's panting lightly. Tilting his head with her hand, she moves to catch his eye. His eyelids are sagging, jaw finally slack, and she gives him a tentative smile.

"Well?"

He loosens his fingers from her shirt, and the fabric sticks to his skin lightly as he pulls his hand away, dropping his gaze to watch as he smooths his hand over his thigh.

"Well, we --" and he clears his throat, straightening in his seat as she shifts back to her own. "-- we can move that one to the similarities column." He ducks his head, a small grin on his lips as he looks up at her. It's endearing, the way he seems almost shy to have enjoyed it.

The same voice, but from across the sofa this time, "I'll say, you don't look half stupid over there. Rose, you can tell me, I look sexier, don't I? None of this cough syrup smile and droopy eyes. Seriously, pull yourself together, mate. You look drunk."

The Time Lord Doctor straightens immediately, eyes suddenly clear and focused on his duplicate, "The TARDIS."

Rose answers at the same time as the human Doctor, "What?"

"The TARDIS," he says again. "I'll bet you the TARDIS you look every bit as daft, when she does that to you."

The agreement comes immediately, head moving in an exaggerated nod, "You're on, and you're going to lose. Plenty of practice, we've done this three times already today. I'll barely even blink."

Rose raises her eyebrows -- three times? -- and he waves her off, "Come here, Rose, let's win ourselves my ship."

There's a tiny, hopeful part of her that imagines they will -- that they'll get the TARDIS and set off on adventures, but she forces it down. Not only will her Doctor undoubtedly make the same face, but the TARDIS is all the other Doctor has. They've got each other.

Although, without the TARDIS, he'd have to stay with them -- no. No.

She scoots down the sofa, mirroring her former position with the other Doctor.

"Ready?" She says again, and the cheeky grin she gets in response makes her stomach flip just the same.

"Wait, wait," the two-hearted Doctor cuts in, standing and sitting back down on the edge of the coffee table, his legs nearly brushing his duplicate's where he sits on the sofa. "I needed to move closer. No going easy on him, I'll be watching for --" he waves his hand in front of his mouth,"-- tongue and things."

Rose salutes, "No mercy," and she ducks her head to the Doctor's neck, mimicking her earlier pattern, lips, mouth, tongue, teeth, all the same path, all the same responses. When she finally pulls back, she has to laugh, it's an identical expression, right down to one eyelid drooping just a bit lower than the other.

Her Doctor startles at the sound and takes in the both of them grinning at him, "What? No, no, oh, come on," he scrubs at his face with his hand before glaring at Rose. "You couldn't have eased up just little?"

She shakes her head in mock seriousness as she shifts to drop her legs back down to the floor, "Had to be done."

They're all sitting so closely now, knees bumping, and when her Doctor speaks again, his voice is noticeably lower.

"All right," he says. "Double or nothing."

The other Doctor tilts his head, pretending to consider, "I'm listening."

"I bet I can make Rose look more like that," he shoves a finger in the Time Lord's face, waggling it in a circle, "Than you can."

The Time Lord laughs, "How is that double? You don't have a TARDIS to offer." He seems to regret the words as soon as they've left his mouth, but her Doctor pushes by it.

"No, but I've got a freezer full of banana ice lollies, out in the garage. I'll drag it into the TARDIS myself, if you win."

It's insane, and hardly a comparison to the TARDIS, but it seems like an understanding has been reached, Rose can feel it, it's what they all want -- have always wanted -- and her Doctor's just come up with a convenient excuse.

"You're on," the two-hearted Doctor says. "Rose, you in?"

She forces herself to pause, to not admit how much the idea intrigues her, the man she loves, the men she loves, trying to best each other at turning her on.

"Sure, why not?"

Her Doctor nods, "Brilliant, now, this is my home -- our home -- and I know the polite thing to do is to let the guest go first, but I think we all know how rude I am. So, step aside, and I'll show you how it's done."

There's another look between the Doctors, but Rose doesn't need a map for this one -- he really is showing him how it's done, evening up the playing field, as it were.

"Shall we say 30 seconds?" The human Doctor asks, and she and the other Doctor agree. The Doctor who's done this before shifts into position, making a show of shaking out his neck muscles, his hands, "And -- go."

Before Rose can catch up, her Doctor has cupped her face, swooping his head so his lips can meet hers. Without preamble, his mouth opens, nipping lightly at her bottom lip as she opens underneath him. He slows the pace, tongue snaking out to slide alongside hers, and she's not clear on the rules, whether she's meant to participate, but it's reflex to wind her arms around his neck, fingers twining into his hair.

Without breaking the kiss, the Doctor leans forward, forcing her to recline into the sofa, as he moves a hand from her face to lightly scratch down her neck. She tilts into the movement, pulling her mouth from his. He replaces his fingers with his lips then, dropping his hand to undo a button on her shirt before continuing to kiss along her throat, nudging fabric aside with his nose before sucking lightly at the join of her shoulder and neck.

She arches up at the feeling, as he begins to assert more pressure. He meets the movement at her breast, palming her firmly, before he slides his thumb across her nipple and she sucks in a breath through her teeth. One hand still in his hair, she keeps him pressed to the spot, as her other hand scrambles for purchase on his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscles there. She shifts to move back, wanting to pull him down on top of her more fully, and he's just leaning toward her when a voice breaks them apart.

"Time!" The other Doctor's voice sounds strained, the words forced out, and when she looks at him, his pupils are wide, his cheeks pink.

PART 2/2

fic; doctor who: Gallifrey Records (3/3. rock band AU.)

cereal — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 15:15:01 GMT

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.

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.

fic; doctor who: Gallifrey Records (2/3. rock band AU.)

cereal — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 04:27:04 GMT

title: Gallifrey Records (part 2/3).
co-author: gallifreyburning!
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10/Rose, ROCK BAND AU.
rating: PG-13, this part, probably.
words: 6,067.
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: (continued from part 1)

The gig wasn’t until 9 that night, with an early morning load out tomorrow, which meant an overnight stay in what was probably going to be some posh resort.

The gig wasn’t until 9 that night, with an early morning load out tomorrow, which meant an overnight stay in what was probably going to be some posh resort.

Soundcheck was at 5 p.m. and a whole day in Coventry stretched out before them. Donna was taking one car to check-in at the hotel, and then heading to the venue for the business side of things.

With strict instructions to their driver — a friendly-looking old man the Doctor had called Wilf — to make sure they were at the arena on time, Donna left the two of them, shouting, “Behave!” out the open car window as she left. Rose was grateful for the relative privacy of the station’s back entrance or the press would have a field day with her mothering.

“Well, Rose Tyler, whatever shall we do with ourselves?” He leaned on the hood of the car, the fabric of his trousers vibrating as it idled. She couldn’t see Wilf from outside the tinted glass, but she wondered how he would feel about the Doctor’s rather cavalier attitude toward his vehicle.

Rose shrugged, “I don’t know. What does one do in Coventry?”

The Doctor pushed off the car and squinted into the distance, “There’s St. Michael’s, what do you think? Visit some ruins? Or the Herbert — that’s a museum, up for a bit of learning?”

At the thought of walking around anywehre — ruins or a museum — her stomach growled. It had been a rushed affair to get to the station and she’d gone without breakfast.

“I think I’d like to learn the location of the nearest chip shop,” she said and the Doctor beamed at her in response.

He opened the car door and ducked inside after her, “We’d like some chips, please, Wilf!”

Wilf rolled the partition down and grinned conspiratorily, “You know my granddaughter won’t be happy about that, Doctor.” But he put the car in drive and left the parking lot anyway.

“Granddaughter?” Rose asked, “Who’s his granddaughter?”

The Doctor picked up Rose’s hand from where it rested on the seat between them, carefully inspecting her fingers, “Hm? Oh, Donna, of course. Wilf’s been a driver for me as long as I’ve been touring. He used to drive my bus, actually, when we had no one else to do it. The label insists on a professional driver now, for insurance or something, Donna knows the story. But Wilf’s always our man about town, if you will.”

Rose caught about every third word, focused as she was on the way the Doctor stroked at the skin of her fingers, calloused from one too many nights up with her guitar.

A conspicuous silence settled over the limo and Rose looked up at his expectant face, only to realize he’d said something else or asked her a question and she’d missed it.

“Sorry?”

“These calluses. You play a lot, but you don’t play on-stage, and you don’t play in the studio, which means you play by yourself, I said.”

She nodded; he was still doing that thing, fingertips stroking, and tingles were traveling up her arm in waves, and her brain was about to short out.

“I’d like to practice with you, every day, if we can manage. The more comfortable we get, the better our rapport onstage.”

The shorting-out in her brain happened. She snatched her hand away, taking a deep breath, trying to get her bearings. “Is this all part of the routine? The initiation for the Doctor’s new ‘Companion’? Luring me into your tour bus for the night, introducing me to all your friends, holding my hand like … like that?”

His face was entirely devoid of expression for a moment, and it made her stomach twist sideways – he wasn’t the jovial bloke whose bed she’d crashed in last night, and who had shared jokes with her all morning – she was looking at a Doctor mask, the face she’d seen him give in television interviews when he didn’t like the line of questioning the interviewer was taking.

“You think I’m manipulating you,” he said, his left eye twitching a bit.

“No, no, I didn’t say that” – oh god, had she, had she actually said that? – “This is all such a whirlwind, and I’m trying to keep my feet on the ground, y’know? It’s hard when … you’re the Doctor, and your life on tour is very different than my usual kind of tour, and …” She trails off, because she was going to say something about how her mum isn’t here, and reminding him of Jackie is the last thing she needs to do.

“You want to know about the other women?” he asks, and he isn’t angry or dismissive, he’s just kind of stoic.

Did she? Rose thought about it, dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to put her thoughts in order. When he put the question that way, it seemed so shallow. No, she didn’t want to know about them.

“I just want to know if this is how it is for … all the people who come on tour with you. I guess.”

He turned his entire torso toward her, seatbelt stretching across the plane of his chest.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ve toured with a lot of people, all over the world. Some were for business reasons, some were for personal reasons, but they were all brilliant, in their own way. You probably think so, too. Here, let me see your phone.”

Confused by the non sequitur, she did as he asked, rummaging around in her purse until she found it and handed it over.

“Ah, knew you’d have one of these smart phones, with the music player. Look, see here,” he pointed at the screen, “Sarah Jane and the Adventures. She toured with me around the Velvet and Scarf albums. She comes back for one-off shows every now and again, charity things and the like, but she’s got her own life. They all do.”

He continued thumbing through her music, “Oh! Ace in Your Face! This album’s dead clever, isn’t it? The things she can do with sound effects — those explosions on loop? Forget it. If she comes around at any of the stops, you don’t pay attention to any nicknames she may or may not have for me, yeah?”

The car ride continued like that as they arrived at the restaurant — the Doctor gushing when he found a musician he’d worked with on Rose’s phone, and Rose carefully watching his face for signs of anything more than, well, the fond memories of friendship.

Wilf opted to stay in the car and by the time they’d made their way to the counter, she’d only seen the flash of something she couldn’t pinpoint a couple of times. Once, with Jamie McCrimmon, and once with Romana Travels in Time.

“Sorted then?” The Doctor asked, toying with the order number sign as they made their way to a table. “I can’t say how it is for all the people who come on tour with me, because it’s always different. This, what I’m doing with you, it’s different, too. And nothing I’ve ever done before, regardless of what the press would have you believe.”

Rose took a long drink of her soda, the bubbles popping on her tongue felt like they’d made their way to her blood. What was he implying? That he didn’t hold hands? Or that he didn’t duet with people every night, practicing with them every day?

Or something else entirely? The thing, maybe, that she was trying not to acknowledge might be happening.

Before she could get too far down the rabbit hole, a waiter stopped by with their chips and the Doctor’s face indicated the matter had gone as far as he felt comfortable with it going.

He tucked into his basket of food with a vengeance. Rose used her plastic fork to poke at a chip, picked it up, nibbled on the end, and thought about how all morning she’d been acting like a teenager with a crush, with her giggling and her inappropriate questions and her wild ideas about exactly what was going on in the Doctor’s head. And how all of that was going to stop right now.

She was young – younger than the Doctor. But she was a professional singer, here to learn. So she’d sit down for each and every rehearsal and jam session the Doctor wanted. She’s crash on his couch, if it meant understanding his genius. This man was universally acknowledged as a rock god, and well … if the way he cradled his guitar in his hands, slung low over his hips, happened to be dead sexy; or if he happened to look particularly appetizing in those pinstriped trousers; or if he happened to hold her hand again this afternoon … none of it was here nor there.

“So the cathedral, St. Michael’s, that sounds interesting,” she said, because she’d made things awkward, and she wanted them to be easy again.

He perked up at that. “Y’know, I’ve been to Coventry at least a dozen times and could tell you the entire history of that cathedral, but I’ve never visited it. It was built in the 1300s, amazing bit of architecture …”

And just like that, the Doctor started rattling off the cathedral’s history. Rose had never been terribly interested in architecture or anything else like that, really, but the way he talked made it sound fascinating.

So after chips, when they went to the cathedral and stood in the quiet solemnity of the nave, it wasn’t just an old building made of stones. It was living history, architecture and craftstmanship and artistry, and whether any kind of God inhabited this space or not, it was holy because of the thousands of people who had worked to build it over the centuries, because of their lives and their connection to this place.

She must’ve had a strange look on her face, because when she tore her attention away from their surroundings she found the Doctor staring at her, almost the same way she was staring at the cathedral. He smiled and took her hand, fingers threading with hers, and she grinned right back at him.

They lost track of things exploring and Rose was embarrassed to have made Wilf trek all the way out from the car to find them. Thanks to him, they’d made it back for sound check right at 5.

The Doctor disappeared at the start of it and Rose didn’t see him again for hours — when he was standing offstage during her set, beaming at her like she made the Earth spin.

She forced herself to keep correct time, it would be ridiculous to rush off the stage just to see him for a bit before his own set started. Besides, she’d see him for their duet later. And she was a professional, damn it.

When she’d finished her last song and exited the stage, the Doctor wasn’t around, but Donna was.

“He left something for you, in your dressing room,” Donna told her.

It was a hoodie, a note in what Rose guessed was the Doctor’s handwriting on top:

Baby steps. You could keep the dress on with this.

On the next line, he’d written, If you want.

She did, she did want, and she zipped the pink sweatshirt up around herself, pleased with the weird way it sort of matched her dress. He must have gotten it during sound check.

Grabbing her guitar and practically skipping back to the stage, Rose waited as the Doctor performed some of her favorite songs, a mix from of all of his albums.

And then suddenly he was calling her out, tugging at the sleeve of her hoodie with a grin as she took her place next to him.

He made a gesture like a phone to his ear and winked at her, before launching into one of the most played songs in her favorite playlist. It sounded different on just a guitar, but Rose recognized it immediately, the Postal Service.

I am thinking it’s a sign —

And Rose was gone. When she came back to herself minutes later, the Doctor was sweating and smiling, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as he escorted her off the stage.

He held a finger down over her ear, blocking out the noise of the crowd before raising his voice, “The hotel has a pool! Best way to cool down after a gig!”

Then he was gone, dashing back out to center stage for the first encore.

She pried herself away just as he was finally finishing, and she grimaced as the Doctor’s drummer — Adam Mitchell, was it? — chased after her, “Rose! Rose!”

“Hey, I know you. You’re Adam, right?” she said, flashing him her patented smile.

He looked pleased. “Yeah! I’ve been wanting to say, you’re really spectacular. It takes someone special to keep up with the Doctor, but look at you – you haven’t missed a beat.” He paused, surprise flashing across his face, along with a sheepish smile. “I should know, I suppose. God, that was corny. Did that just happen?” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Let me just state for the record, this was not how I was imagining this conversation might go.”

Rose laughed, reaching out to pat his forearm. “I think it’s going perfectly, Adam. And thanks – keeping up has been a challenge, I won’t pretend it hasn’t.”

They were both sweltering from the summer evening and the stage lights, sweating in their costumes. All Rose could think about was the swimming pool and the Doctor and making those two things happen as soon as possible.

“I really need to …” She made a gesture, pointing vaguely toward her dressing room.

“I’ll walk you,” Adam said quickly. Rose glanced behind him, at the empty stage, but there was no sign of the Doctor, only a hive of stage hands disassembling equipment. Adam fell into step beside her. “I’m trying really hard not to sound like a ridiculous fanboy, but I grew up at the Powell Estate, too.”

She blinked at him, squinted a little, studying his profile in the harsh glare of the arena corridors, trying to place it, to glean any bit of familiarity. His short, rounded nose, the dark hair and eyes, none of it triggered any memories. “Really?”

“Yeah, I think I left a few years before you did. Never finished school, went right into the music scene.”

“How’d you end up working with the Doctor?”

“Oh, I was in this band – called ourselves Van Statten’s Bunker, we were trying for a new wave garage sound, we were terrible really. But the Doctor heard us in a club, and I got a phone call from Donna the next day, and here I am.”

They came to a stop outside of Rose’s dressing room door. “I don’t know about the rest of your band-mates, but you’ve found your league here, Adam. You’re not so bad at keeping up with the Doctor, yourself.”

He grinned and jammed his hands into his jean pockets, his cheeks turning pink, his feet shuffling. “Thanks, Rose. Coming from you, that really means – I mean, I appreciate it. So has anyone told you about the pool? We always have a little party of sorts, first night at a hotel on the road. You ought to come. Everybody’s going to be there.”

Rose carefully held her face in check, a skill honed over hundreds of uncomfortable interviews. She hadn’t had time to process just what the Doctor meant with his pool invitation, but she was sure she wasn’t expecting a party.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “The Doctor told me.”

Adam, apparently without experience in keeping his own face neutral, turned the corners of his mouth down.

“Right, right, yeah, of course he did,” he shuffled his feet, “Well, see you there, I guess.”

And then he was gone.

Rose changed quickly, stopping off at her bus for a few overnight items, including her swim suit and a thin robe for a cover up. She wasn’t sure how tight security was at the hotel, but if any paparazzi managed to sneak in, she wanted to limit the number of photos of her in her bikini. She didn’t need any grief from her mum.

She flagged down one of the cars idling in the back lot. She didn’t see Wilf’s, so the Doctor must have gone on ahead.

Donna had already checked them in and as soon as Rose’s car was pulling into the valet, an attendant rushed out to greet her with her key and the location of her room. She followed his directions and made her way to the correct floor.

There was a message from Donna, too, blinking on the room phone, with instructions to charge food and anything else Rose needed back to the room, rather than try and pay for it and deal with any expense reports.

Rose was grateful, paperwork was not her strong suit, and she didn’t need her mum weighing in on the receipts and why she’d felt the need to order two drinks and a basket of chips at midnight.

When she’d finished the snack, eyes glued to the clock the entire time, she changed into her suit and the robe and made her way outside to the pool.

Her eyes were scanning the crowd, the noise of a party in full effect surrounding her. She’d just spotted Martha Jones sitting on the diving board and was going to go say hello when Donna swam up to the edge of the pool.

“Resort like this,” Donna said. “There’s bound to be another pool, an indoor one for when it gets cold —”

Whatever she was going to say next was cut off as Jack Harkness swam up behind her, dunking her under the water.

When she finally surfaced again, sputtering and smacking Jack over the head repeatedly, she finished her thought: “And I’m about to go track down that indoor pool, because if I don’t get some peace I’m going to murder you, you great dunce!”

“Donna, you’re the most important woman in all of creation,” Jack crooned in a sing-song voice, fending off her blows and still managing to catch her around the waist.

“Don’t start with me, Harkness, I’ve killed before and I’ll kill again!” But she was smiling, and her arms settled around his shoulders.

Jack looked up at Rose, blue eyes glittering mischievously. “C’mon in, Rose! Water’s fine!”

At that moment, Rose’s own guitarist, Jake, barreled into her, shouting “Cannonball!” They both went into the water together, head over heels, and everything was chlorine and she was choking and when she came up to the surface, she did a fairly good imitation of Donna, smacking Jake on the head and yelling insults at him. He was, as usual, incorrigible – he grinned, called her a few names in return, and dove under, disappearing to the other side of the pool.

“He’s not bad,” Jack said to Rose, waggling his eyebrows.

“I’m sure he’ll be flattered to know you think so,” Rose retorted. “He’s always had an eye for American beefcake.”

Jack’s grin widened and he stared across the pool at Jake. “Really?”

“Focus,” Donna reminded him, pointing a finger at her own face. “Most important woman, remember?”

“Oh yes, that’s where we were,” Jack replied, pulling her away with a jaunty wave toward Rose.

Rose heaved herself out of the pool, soaked and dripping, hair stringing down her shoulders and robe completely transparent from the water. So much for keeping the paparazzi from getting those bikini shots. With a sigh she tossed the wet robe onto a lounge chair and there he was, sidling up beside her with a pair of drinks in his hands.

“Here, you look like you need one of these. Who needs enemies when you’ve got friends like that, huh?”

Rose took the drink Adam held out to her. “Yeah, exactly.” She took a sip – whatever it was, it was strong enough to make the back of her throat close up, and she went into a coughing fit, bending over and covering her mouth with her hand. When she recovered, she realized she’d grabbed Adam’s arm to keep from keeling over. Her throat and stomach burning from the alcohol, she let go and managed to say, “Jake likes to pretend he’s my big brother. I’ve known him forever — we were mates when we were kids, him and me and Mickey, like the Three Musketeers.”

Adam nodded in understanding, “That’s what I like about being in a band, the camaraderie of it. Be a shame if the Doctordoes decide to make this his farewell tour. I suppose I could always just find another band to drum in. Doesn’t hurt have to his name on your CV.”

Rose’s eyes widened, hand tightening on her glass — was there something she’d missed?

“Farewell tour?” There, nice and even, well done.

“Oh.” Adam’s face indicated he realized he had just spoken wildly out of turn, but he continued anyway. “Well, um, yeah, I mean, he was talking about it getting old — the business. He didn’t feel it like he used to. Might stop, set up somewhere in a house, he’s got loads of money, he could do whatever he wanted.”

The alcohol in Rose’s system was making her warm and the idea that the Doctor, the Doctor, was going to say “farewell” was making it a thousand times worse.

Was she some final charity case? Help launch Rose Tyler to the next level and then disappear forever?

The noise of the party, the splashes and hollering, the radio replaying their interview from this morning, felt like too much. She pulled a towel around herself, stuffing her feet into the sandals, now soaked, that she’d brought along.

At the turn of the first hallway, there was a sign for another pool, and Rose followed it without thinking. Maybe she could swim some laps, since she was already in her suit and wet, bursting with angry energy.

The noise of the door opening to the pool area echoed loudly in the dim space and Rose was grateful for the relative privacy of it. She was squinting at the water, trying to figure out which end was the deep end, when she heard the Doctor’s voice.

“Rose Tyler,” he grinned at her across the water, taking in her wet hair, “See you found the outdoor pool, then.”

She felt the anger rise, everything was such a laugh to him, but this was her career and this was her — her life, and she needed all the information available, not just whatever breadcrumbs she could find lying around.

“Yeah, it’s a party. You should go, gotta soak it up while you can, right?” Her voice sounded hard in the quiet room.

“What?” His own voice was even, and the water reflecting on his face obscured any other clues.

The room was relatively dark – it was late enough, both pools were technically supposed to be closed to guests, but Donna had no doubt made special arrangements. The overhead lights must’ve been on some sort of auto-timer. At least the pool light was on.

“Swan songs, Doctor. I was just thinking about swan songs,” Rose said. With that, she dove into the water. She’d never been much of a swimmer – gymnastics were more her thing – but the trainer the record label had hired had forced her to do laps enough that she made it to the opposite end of the pool before she had to surface.

When her head popped up, she found the Doctor had come to sit at the edge of the pool in front of her, cross-legged, his elbow on his knee and his fist resting against his cheek. Since they’d first met a few days ago, he hadn’t worn anything besides his pinstripes, and the sight of him in swim shorts threw her off more than she would’ve expected. He was skinny, but not scrawny at all; his lines were filled out nicely. His shoulders and arms were freckled, his chest covered in hair, she could even see an appendix scar on his abdomen. In the light reflected from the pool, his brown eyes looked older than usual, like the soul of an ancient being was staring through them.

“Is this a riddle, Rose?” he asked, cocking one eyebrow at her. “I enjoy a good riddle.”

He was too close. The alcohol was warm in her veins, there was too much skin, she was getting distracted, and so she backed away from him and the edge of the pool, treading water.

“You’re in here by yourself, although you’ve obviously been to the party. You want some peace and quiet. I’d say you’re just tired from the day, but if that was the case you’d be in your hotel room. Your tone of voice says you’re unhappy. So what are you upset about?”

“Adam said –”

“Adam?” the Doctor interrupted, leaning back and scrubbing a hand through his already wild hair. He wrinkled his nose. “Worked up the nerve to talk to you, did he?”

“Yeah, he seems like a nice bloke.”

Without warning, the Doctor moved forward and hopped into the pool – well, half-fell, actually, although he seemed to do it on purpose. He surfaced, spitting out a mouthful of water like a fountain, and came to tread water alongside her, just beyond arm’s distance. “Adam’s a decent kid.” The look on his face belied his words, and what he said next had a distinct edge of anger to it: “And what exactly did he say to upset you?”

Rose didn’t let herself think for long about whether that tone implied jealousy or just that he was upset Adam might have been telling secrets.

She pushed the thought down with a forceful kick of her feet under the water, “Oh, you know, gave me a drink, put my hand on his arm, the words ‘farewell tour’ were thrown around.”

The Doctor’s face flashed with something quiet and severe, “Adam should learn to keep his mouth shut. Wish I could click my fingers and do it for him.”

Rose felt for the bottom of the pool, propelling herself away from the Doctor when she found it.

“So, it’s true, then? This is it? You’ll never ever play music professionally again?”

He followed her across the pool and she tried to be mindful not to back herself into a corner.

“Never ever say ‘never ever,’ Rose.”

She hit out at the water with her fist, creating a splash, “Why are you always so cryptic? Just give me a straight answer!”

The water was shallow enough now that the Doctor could stand and he walked slowly through it, something like fury in his movements.

“Oh, I’m always cryptic, am I? And you’ve had such a long stretch of time to form an assumption like that. You don’t know what it does to you, living this life for as long as I have. The things I’ve seen, and done. It stays with you.”

Terrific, the high and mighty approach, little Rose Tyler could hardly hope to understand the tribulations of the Doctor, God of Rock.

“I want to stay with you, but not if it could be all over tomorrow. I’m not going to start something — start creating music — if there’s already an expiration date.”

The Doctor made his way over to the steps, sinking down against them, “We’re only on the second stop, Rose. The tour will hardly be over tomorrow.”

She had an urge to stomp her foot, but the movement was slowed by the water, “You know what I mean! I thought this could be a new direction for my li— my career, but if it’s just some one-off and then back to the clubs with you, Rose Tyler, I’ll have to say ta, but I’ll pass.”

His shoulders slumped, “You want to go home?”

Rose grit her teeth before answering, “No!” she roared. “I want to stay here! But I want it to mean something!”

For some reason, the angrier she got, the more morose the Doctor became. “Mean something? For your career? Rose Tyler, what do you think all of this is about? I saw how promising you were, how much you had to offer. What a legacy you’d be. I made you my opening act on what’s going to be my farewell tour, I gave you an extended duet in the middle of my set – you’ve got nearly as much stage time as me. Should we talk about billing, how big your name is on the poster? Do you need to call your mum, have her negotiate for more money?”

During his speech, Rose had been steadily making her way closer, and as soon as she was within reach, she slapped him. The crack of her palm against his face ricocheted around the stark surfaces of the pool room, loud as a gunshot. He reared back and put a hand to his cheek, climbing up the steps to the edge of the pool, dripping water everywhere.

He was, apparently, too shocked for speech.

Rose’s own cheeks were numb and stinging, as though she was the one who’d been slapped. She was reeling, and any filter she’d had between her thoughts and her mouth was gone.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed. “I’m not talking about my career or your legacy. I’m talking about you – forty-eight hours in, and I can see how much you love this. It’s your lifeblood. It’s who you are. Up on stage, with your guitar and your voice – the Doctor in his purest form. Saving the world with your words and the way you make people feel, even when they don’t think they want to. And you’re going to walk away from all that?”

The Doctor lowered his hand, revealing his bright crimson cheek, the outline of Rose’s fingers clearly visible. Brow puckered, face grim, he got to his feet, staring down at her in the water.

“I’m tired, Rose. Goodnight.”

He wasn’t talking about needing a good sleep, Rose figured that out easily enough. He was already leaving, long legs carrying him out of the room with remarkable speed, and Rose slogged out of the pool after him. “Doctor! Wait! I’m sorry, I just –”

“You’re what?” Whipping around so fast he sprayed her with a shower of water droplets, he glowered at her. She skidded to a stop in front of him, shivering and covered in goosebumps, and none of it was from the cold air.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated softly, lifting her hand toward his face, but he narrowed his eyes and leaned back. “I was out of line. I shouldn’t have …” slapped you, she wanted to finish, but she couldn’t make herself say it, because the gravity of what she’d done was just dawning on her.

“It’s your decision,” she finished lamely. “I’ll just have to get what I can and greet the next adventure alone.”

The Doctor sighed and glanced at the door, apparently confirming his escape route was still available should he need it.

“That’s just it, Rose. It stopped being an adventure for me. A long time ago, if I’m honest. Fights with the label, juggling the press, watching my music get chopped up into little radio friendly pieces — none of that is what I signed on for.”

He paused and Rose held her breath, wanting him to continue more than she wanted to respond.

“I got into music to get away, to escape the stuffy, old place I grew up in — and to help people, to try and speak to them the way other music spoke to me. But I’ve been doing it for so long, I’d forgotten all that. I hadn’t even thought about it in a long time, until —”

Rose felt a flush along the back of her neck, the high ceilings of the pool area amplifying his sudden silence.

“Until what?”

He didn’t speak until she met his eyes, “Until Donna showed me that tape of you performing. There’s something about you, Rose Tyler. It makes me want to remember who I was.”

She wanted to hug him, or at least take his hand, but moving her arms seemed risky in light of the slap she’d given him.

Slowly, slow enough that he could back away at any time, she rose up on her toes and leaned in toward him. She pressed a light kiss to his injured cheek, both an apology and a thank you.

When she dropped back down, she wasn’t expecting the look on his face. A wide grin, yes, or a wince at the pain that had to still be lingering where she’d struck him, but not this.

He was looking at her with such wonder, as if he’d never seen anything like her before.

She bounced on her toes, feeling anxious under the weight of his eyes, when suddenly they dropped lower, to her chest, to where she was just now realizing she had been — jiggling.

He looked up again, a hand rising to press over his cheek, and then he was all movement, closing the distance between them in a flash.

His mouth met hers, frantic and strong, and then he was backing her up, hands clutching at the skin of her hips, as he guided her toward the lifeguard stand.

Her back met the cold metal of the base, and she arched into him to get away from it, an intimate movement heightened by their lack of clothing. She pulled back, readjusting before clutching at his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers again.

It was mad and wonderful and confusing, they’d only known each other for two days, but she’d wanted it like they’d been together for years. The thought personified as they pulled apart and reconnected, mouths like magnets, before he finally slipped his tongue past her lips.

Her arch this time was voluntary, his tongue warm and slick as it battled with her own. She unwound her hands from his hair to slide down his neck before moving to clutch at his shoulders.

His own hands skated from her hips around to the top of her bum and she made a noise like surprise and acceptance rolled together. It sounded needy though, she knew, and he seemed to hear it, too, wrenching his mouth from hers and stumbling backward.

Her eyes went wide at the look of him, the wet, messy hair, the red of his cheeks, both sides even in color now, and the film of sheer panic as he avoided her gaze.

It was a look that said he’d rather not talk about it, maybe ever.

Still feeling guilty for hauling off and hitting him — and more than a bit ruffled by this newest development — she took a deep breath and gave him an out.

“I think Jake said something about beer pong. Seems like a sport you’d be good at — what do you think?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, coming up with a smile when he pulled it away.

“Sounds brilliant.”

PART 3.

fic; doctor who: Gallifrey Records (1/3. rock band AU.)

cereal — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 04:19:14 GMT

title: Gallifrey Records (part 1/3).
co-author: gallifreyburning!
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10/Rose, ROCK BAND AU.
rating: PG?
words: 4,953.
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:

Rose wasn’t initially sure what to make of the offer.

Everybody knew the Doctor, had listened to his music at some point in their lives, tucked up in their bedrooms and pouring over the lyrics insert. Everybody had a favorite album, too. They were never titled, only distinguishable by what he was wearing on the cover.

Her mum’s friends always talked about the Scarf Album or the Cricket Album, but Rose liked his newer stuff, the Leather Album and the Suit Album, even the Cravat Album (though she’d gotten into that one out of order).

Rose wasn’t initially sure what to make of the offer.

Everybody knew the Doctor, had listened to his music at some point in their lives, tucked up in their bedrooms and pouring over the lyrics insert. Everybody had a favorite album, too. They were never titled, only distinguishable by what he was wearing on the cover.

Her mum’s friends always talked about the Scarf Album or the Cricket Album, but Rose liked his newer stuff, the Leather Album and the Suit Album, even the Cravat Album (though she’d gotten into that one out of order).

So when he’d called her — and her — not her mum, actually called Rose, and invited her to be the opening act for his newest tour, it was kind of a heavy moment.

“I don’t deal with mums and I don’t deal with managers, and I certainly don’t deal with mum-managers,” he said. “You decide if you’d like to come along.”

Rose remembered the long silence down the line before he’d finally said, “I will say, I’d love you to come,” and then he’d hung up.

The next day he’d called again, asking one last time, and she’d not hesitated to sign on.

She’d spent the weeks leading up to the start of the tour a nervous wreck. The Doctor was famous for making people’s careers, or saving them when they were in trouble, but a single word from him could kill an artist dead in the water. Harriet Jones’ latest album had barely even charted, after he’d implied she was relying a little too heavy on the auto-tune.

Rose had been on tour plenty of times – playing sold-out clubs and theaters – but this was a new league of venue: stadiums. As much as Jackie raged about the Doctor’s “no mothers on the road” rule, she finally agreed, for the sake of Rose’s career.

She was old enough to handle things on her own without her mum, manager or not. By things, her mum didn’t meanpercentage of the take or proper billing on the posters. The Doctor had a history of bringing young women on the road with him – although there hadn’t ever been any proof of anything untoward happening behind-the-scenes. The gossip rags were rife with unsubstantiated rumors about the Doctor’s “Companions” (nicknamed as though they were a troupe of backup singers), but no one had ever scored a single incriminating photo.

Rose figured that if things got out of hand, well … her mum was only a phone call away.

She didn’t actually meet the Doctor in person until they were right in the thick of it, at the kickoff performance at Wembley stadium. Five minutes before she was due to be onstage, he knocked at her dressing room door. Without waiting for an answer, he came in, decked out in his trademark pinstripes and Chucks, his hair a glorious mess of spikes. He was taller and skinnier in person than she’d expected, and he just stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking back onto his heels and surveying her as though she was a particularly interesting specimen of something … alien.

After a minute of this, with Rose watching the clock tick by on the wall behind his head, so as not to stare directly at the man whose music had gotten her through both being broken up with by Jimmy, and breaking up with Mickey, he finally spoke.

“You bring that with you,” he glanced to the trusty pink guitar resting in its stand to her left. “But you don’t play it on stage. Why’s that? Not any good? No, couldn’t be that, you seem like the type to be the best at whatever you do. I should know, I only take the best.”

The tone of his voice, the light ramble he slipped into, put her at ease and she instantly wanted to answer with the truth.

“Oh, product of my environment, I guess. They wanted a pop star, I wanted to be Joan Jett,” she gestured to her own trademark — a sparkled dress, “You can tell who won.”

The Doctor focused on her, locking their eyes, and Rose felt like she was seeing the history of music flash by, a million songs, anguished ballads and screaming punk, a thousand radio hits.

“Well, I want the real Rose Tyler, not some label’s packaged product. When you finish your set, put on whatever you’d like and wait at the side of the stage during mine. Bring your guitar.”

She wanted to protest, she had never actually played it in front of anyone, hours at home, alone, yes, but on stage it was usually her, her voice, and whatever flash effects they put behind her.

Before she could get the words out, she heard the two minute call and the Doctor ducked out the door.

Rose had seen concerts at Wembley over the years, Muse and Madonna and Green Day, so she knew the lay of the land. She’d walked onstage for her sound check a few hours ago, when the seats were empty and the lights were going up. But stepping out from behind the curtains, standing in front of the sea of faces and the roar of cheers pounding the stage like waves beating the shore, took her breath. She was in over her head and drowning, incapable of calling for help, face fixed into a rictus of a smile and dress sparkling like a disco ball. Then the drums kicked in, steady and familiar, and her knees unlocked.

“Hello, London!” She strutted forward, managed not to fall into the crowd, waved hello, and they cheered louder.

I only take the best.

Damn right he does, Rose thought. Because once the music started, she was a goddess — she held power over the audience, the power of love and emotion, of life and death.

Unlike some headlining divas in the music world, the Doctor had given her free rein in choosing her set list. She sang her current hit first, of course; but after that came the songs she’d written herself, the ones the label liked to put on the b-side because they made her appear “authentic.”

Halfway through the last song she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, standing just offstage, watching her with a grin on his face. Not the smile he gave in his music videos or concerts or interviews, but a small twist of his lips, the expression of a man delighted by something unexpected.

It was a good look on him, that grin.

It was even better that she’d put it there.

When she finished that song, and the lights had dimmed, the road crew trotting out to arrange things for the Doctor’s set, she all but ran back to her dressing room.

Should she change?

There weren’t very many people who saw her without the armor of something shiny, and walking on stage like that seemed almost unimaginable. Something in her wanted the Doctor to see it first, alone.

Besides, she wanted to show the world, or at least Wembley stadium, that the Rose Tyler they knew could do this. If the label saw the audience responding to her, in wardrobe, with a guitar, maybe they’d let her bring it out once in a while.

Trying to play in jeans and t-shirts could come after that.

That decided, she grabbed her guitar, and forced herself to walk slowly back to the offstage area, fielding congratulations from some of the crew milling about the halls.

From her spot in the wings, she watched the Doctor’s set, enjoying the way he paced the stage with his guitar in between breaks from singing. It wasn’t dancing by any stretch, more like he was trying to get his thoughts in order before the next verse, his fingers on the instrument almost second nature.

And then suddenly the music had stopped and he was announcing a special guest, one, he said, who might look familiar, from, oh, 45 minutes ago. She had only a moment to think about how much she loved the conversational way he addressed the audience, before a crew member was plucking her guitar from her hand and rushing to plug it in.

Rose followed him out, watching the Doctor’s face in the bright lights as she went.

She ought to have felt panic – they hadn’t rehearsed anything together, and she was familiar with his songs enough to wing it,maybe, but there simply wasn’t a plan. For Rose, everything had always been planned: costume changes to match the mood of each song, pyrotechnics, back-up dancers, every aspect of the show predictable and easy to manage.

So far, the Doctor had been anything but predictable, and Rose had the distinct impression that trying to manage him would be a nightmare.

He smiled as she walked across the stage, arm extended in welcome, and the crowd roared. She grinned back, tongue between her teeth (oh he noticed that, his gaze flickering to her mouth for a split second). She waved at the audience and slung her pink guitar across her body; wearing it out here, in front of all these people, was exhilarating and terrifying and exactly like going down the steep drop on a roller coaster.

In the glare of the stage lights, every last detail of the Doctor’s face was illuminated – the angles of his cheekbones, the constellation of freckles across his skin, and the mischievous gleam in his bright brown eyes.

“Rose Tyler, are you ready?” he mouthed at her, so the mic wouldn’t pick up his words.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

The Doctor turned to the audience, bouncing on his toes in excitement, full of manic energy, and shouted at them, “Are you ready?”

The response was deafening. He winked at her and his fingers moved over the strings of his guitar. After the fourth chord, she was playing right along with him, and when he belted out the first lyric she came in right on cue: “Hit me with your rhythm stick; Hit me! Hit me! Je t’adore, ich liebe dich; Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!”

He couldn’t have known. There’s no way the Doctor could’ve known about this song, and the way her father used to sing it to her at night, before his car accident. This song, and the way it was worn into her bones like grooves on a record.

After that, it was the clichéd blur she said she’d never describe being on stage as, but there it was. There was a sense of home, of something familiar, up there, on the worn floorboards, and it wasn’t all in the memory of her dad.

The Doctor had a manic, happy look on his face (to match her own, she was sure) by the time they’d finished the song. She pulled him into a tight hug on impulse, the crowd roaring louder and a thousand camera flashes going off before she released him, not missing the way he definitely hugged her back.

The photos would be on every music blog from London to Cleveland by morning, but she didn’t care. If the in-ear monitor was anything to go by, it had been an amazing performance — hopefully they’d mention that, too.

She walked off-stage with the Doctor and it was only when they reached a tough-looking woman in a business suit that she realized they were holding hands. Had she done that? Oh, god. She let go of the Doctor’s hand as casually as she could.

“You two were brilliant! The press will go bonkers for that!” The woman said, her ginger hair shining in the backstage lights. She turned to Rose, “I’m Donna Noble, I manage Rock Boy over here.”

Rose stuck out her hand, realizing too late it was probably sweaty from playing (and holding the Doctor’s), but Donna shook it and didn’t comment, “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Noble,” Rose said.

”Ms. Noble, I like this one! Please call me Donna though,” she turned to the Doctor, “And you! No more than three encores! We load out tonight, not in the morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Doctor said, ruffling his own unruly hair before he snapped to mock attention and directed a salute at her.

“Oi, don’t sass me, Rock Boy.” The crowd was screaming; it sounded like an impending riot. “Get out there and give them that encore, before they tear the house down!”

He was about to turn away, but Rose grabbed his hand – why did she have this impulse to hold onto him? – and blurted out, “You were brilliant, too!”

“Oh, me? I’m always brilliant,” he replied, and coming from his beaming face it wasn’t so much conceit as it was statement of fact; not something he was proud of, simply a truth he knew about himself. His long fingers squeezed hers and he was gone, bouncing back onstage as the crowd roared even louder.

“C’mon, I’ll show you were they park the buses. This place is a maze, and I don’t have any extra troops to send a search party if you get lost.”

Rose had nearly forgotten Donna was there.

The two women fell into easy conversation as Donna guided her through the depths of the stadium to the loading bay. It was packed with lorries, some already being loaded with Rose’s own stage equipment, some waiting for the Doctor’s. In the midst of everything stood two tour buses. Rose’s was exactly as her mother had stipulated in her contract: a hulking thing, black and gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a spaceship. The Doctor’s battered blue bus looked small beside it, chipped paint and balding tires attesting to years on the road. Rose realized he must love this bus – there was no other reason someone with his resources would’ve kept such an ancient thing.

Donna gave her a hug before excusing herself to see to all the other details of wrapping up the evening’s show. Rose took her time cleaning up, showering and changing into a tank top and pajama pants. She’d just settled in with a romance novel when there was a knock at her door.

Rose checked herself in the mirror next to the dresser, poking at her cheeks to get some color into them, before opening the door. What would she say to him? Should she have stayed for his encores? No, Donna had been the one to lead her away — surely she would know if the Doctor would get fussy that she left.

She took a deep breath just as another knock came and she opened the door with a grin.

It was not the Doctor.

Her smile faltered as a woman about her own height and build stood in the entryway, “Hi, I’m Martha Jones, tour physician.”

Quickly recovering, Rose shook her hand, “A doctor for the Doctor?”

“Something like that,” Martha laughed. “A doctor for you, too. I just need to do a quick physical, legal reasons for the label and all that. Should’ve done it before the show tonight, but the Doctor warned everyone off visiting you — I think he wanted to stop by himself first.”

Martha’s tone implied that it could have been a question, but Rose wanted to keep that visit for herself a little longer — until she had to do some interview about the tour and how the Doctor was treating her, at least.

Rose nodded and Martha continued on.

“Anyway, just some quick checks,” and she pulled a stethoscope from a small bag she was carrying.

Martha’s bedside manner was impeccable, putting Rose at ease with questions about her favorite bands and her mum as she checked her blood pressure and looked in her ears. But Rose wanted more information on the Doctor from this inside source.

“Is there a lot of illness on your tours?” Rose said.

“Oh, no, not much at all,” Martha said. “But the executives keep me around just in case. In fact, I think the Doctor insists on it. And someone’s got to stop him from eating only bananas and chips all time.”

Rose laughed, guilty, “I have a bit of a weakness for chips, too.”

Martha put the medical equipment back in her bag, “Oh, you two will get on like a house on fire then. I bet he’ll stop by soon, he always likes to make sure the other acts want to continue after the first show. Don’t mention the chips unless you want to find yourself eating some at,”she checked her watch, “Half past 11.”

And with that, Martha left, leaving the door open behind her.

Rose plopped down on the small sofa with a sigh and reached for her novel again, but before she could even open the cover, the Doctor popped his head inside the door. His hair was wet, which meant he’d cleaned up, but for some bizarre reason he was in a fresh pair of pinstriped trousers and shirtsleeves – still in costume. He glanced at the plush bus, then surveyed her from head to toe, and arched his eyebrows at her choice of novel (oh god, she was reading The Virile Viking again, why hadn’t she packed War and Peace or something?).

“Well, come on then. We’ve got to be in Conventry by morning, we’re doing an interview on the local morning show, and Donna’s got the buses leaving in two minutes. Are you going to stay here?”

And with that he popped right back out again, strutting away to his ancient blue bus.

Don’t let things get out of hand, Rose Tyler! her mother’s voice crowed in the back of her head.

“Oh, stuff it,” she retorted aloud, tossing The Virile Viking across the room and following the Doctor to his bus.

It was bigger than it looked from the outside, strewn with the evidence of bachelor living, everything inside decidedly masculine. No hint of any other “companions” anywhere, not that she could see; either it didn’t exist, or he’d hidden it away quite well.

“I’m starving,” he said, depositing a large container of chips into her hands. “Good old Donna, she knows what I need. Always has a basket of these waiting for me after the inagural show. She was the one who first showed me your performance tape, y’know. The one from that club in Soho – what’s it called? – the Shadow Proclamation! That’s the one!” He plucked a few chips out of her lap and stuffed them into his mouth.

“Oh, no. Yeah. The gig where the sound equipment malfunctioned,” Rose said, rolling her eyes following his lead, stuffing chips into her mouth.

“You’re really brilliant unplugged, you are,” he said, waggling his eyebrows again, and she giggled. “You ought to sing like that more often.”

Rose finished chewing, intending to thank him for the compliment, but what came out instead was, “Oh, these are gorgeous!”

The Doctor laughed and nodded, snagging a few more from her pile with a wink. Eating chips like this all the time, how the hell did he stay so skinny? The label had her on an exercise regimen that included a ton of treadmill running, but somehow she couldn’t imagine the Doctor doing the same, at least not on a machine.

He did have those long, thin legs that would be perfect for running though, and the way his trousers — she needed to focus, he was staring at her.

“Remind me to thank Donna then; singing unplugged is great, when I can get away with it. Usually takes an act of nature, or electrical malfunction.”

The Doctor smiled, “Well, we’ll see what we can do about that. I got a first in electrical malfunction, by way of jiggery pokery.” He leaned forward in his seat, arm stretching toward the bus’ small fridge. He opened it and took out two bottles of Vitex and handed one to her.

“Tour sponsor,” he shrugged.

Rose eyed the bottle before opening it, “My dad always thought this would be a great idea — a health drink that tasted good, too.”

“Oh, yeah? What happened? Because it looks like someone beat him to it,” the Doctor took a swig from his bottle. “Although whether this actually tastes good is a matter for debate.”

Rose dropped her eyes to the floor, focusing on the Doctor’s scuffed trainers. It always made people feel awkward when she told them about her dad, like they didn’t know how to respond.

“He — he died. Car accident, when I was little.”

The Doctor put a hand on her knee, light enough and low enough to be proper, “I’m so sorry. I should have — I try not to get too much each information on the other acts before the tour starts. Makes the discovering much more fun. I should’ve known about this though.”

Rose started at his hand on her knee, the way he was leaning into her across the small built-in bench.

“It’s all right, I don’t really even talk about it interviews. It’s weird though, that song tonight, Ian Dury, he used to sing that with me before he died. What made you choose it?”

Before he could reply, the bus lurched into motion, throwing them both to one side of the bench. The Doctor’s hand, which had been so properly placed, slipped upward. Rose let out a very undignified squeal, the Doctor stuttered apologies as he scrambled backward, and the chips went flying onto the floor.

He was on his knees in a flash, scooping bits of fried potato back into the basket. “Ten second rule!”

She eyed the speckled chips as he climbed back onto the bench next to her and shook her head. “More for me,” he said with a shrug, stuffing a few in his mouth. One bite in, he spat them back out into the basket, making a noise like a five-year-old rejecting broccoli. “Bleh! I think I picked up more than just the potatoes there.”

She couldn’t help it – she was giggling again.

“Hmm, that’s enough of that,” he said, tossing the basket onto the nearby kitchenette table. “Where was I? Oh yes! Ian Dury.” The bus had pulled out of the stadium and they were well into the streets of London now; it was darker here, the city lights floating outside the bus window like stars, the hum of the bus engine familiar and comforting. “It’s a classic, that song, one of my favorites. And there’s a video – the internet, that cesspool of moments we wish the public would just forget about – anyway, a video of you in a coffee shop, you were just starting out and you sang that song during open mic night.”

Several thoughts struck Rose all at once, but she only managed to say the first one that popped into her head: “You were googling videos of me on the internet?”

“Well-l-l-l, not exactly.” He looked more than a bit mortified, tugging at his ear and latching his gaze onto the ceiling. “My drummer, Adam, he kind of has a thing for you, and I just happened to be walking by when Adam was –”

Rose waved her hand, cutting him off – although she did like seeing him embarrassed. This wasn’t the Doctor, Rock God; he was a regular bloke, blushing and adorable. “I haven’t sung it in ages. I’m glad you picked it.”

He beamed. “So you’re on-board with all this, then?” he asked, waving vaguely at their surroundings.

Rose looked at the bus, at the open door to the bedroom at one end, and tried not to squeak. “Pardon?”

“The tour! Not ready to jump ship yet, I hope? Because the duet bit in the middle of my set – perfect. I’d like to make it a regular thing, every single stop!”

Rose rushed to agree, “That sounds perfect! I think it’ll help me make a case with the the label for a little more freedom.”

The Doctor looked hurt and she charged on to correct her mistake, “I mean, that’s second though, to singing with you.”

His grin made the chips she had managed to eat stand up and march around in her stomach.

“We can stick to covers for now,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get into a groove in a few stops, and can try writing something together.”

Rose’s head swam, “Oh, oh, yes, oh wow.”

The Doctor seemed not to notice her stumbling, “But for now Rose Tyler, we have to sleep! Well, you do. Don’t need much, me. You can take the bed, I’ll camp out here.”

Before she could protest, he was ushering her toward the back of the bus and the tiny bunk, no door to speak of sectioning it from the rest of the space.

Her head met the pilllow just as her adrenaline crashed and she cocooned herself into the sheets, surrounded by the smell of something spicy and clean and Doctor. She was just pondering what it could be — cologne, aftershave, soap — when she dropped off to sleep.

The next morning, she was jarred from sleep by the sound of the radio:

This is Hark the Shark with your morning drive and coming up in the 8 o’clock hour, we’ll have the Doctor and Rose Tyler, stars of the newest arena tour out of the Gallifrey Records label!

8 o’clock! And the bus wasn’t moving. Oh god, she had to get ready.

“Doctor!” Rose’s voice echoed off the small interior of the bus and the Doctor bolted upright from where he was lying on the bench, apparently listening to the radio.

“What, was is it?!”

“What time is it? I can’t go to the studio looking like this!”

The Doctor looked her up and down and Rose blushed, “Aw, you’d be fine. Jack would probably say something about seeing you the morning after without a night before, though.”

Rose groped around at the edge of her bed for her shoes — when had she taken those off?

“Jack?” She said, distracted.

“Hark the Shark, of course! Helped him get his start in the business, he’s always a stop for press when I tour.”

“Oh, sure, right. Listen, I’ll meet you in the studio,” and she brushed by him on the way out of the bus, careful not to aim her morning breath anywhere near him.

Donna had everything planned out to the second, from ushering them through the crowd of press at the front door of the radio station (Rose didn’t mean to huddle against his side, the camera flashes were disorienting, that was all) to exactly how long the Doctor was allowed to hug Jack hello, both men slapping each other on the back with the enthusiasm of long-absent childhood friends.

Hark the Shark was quite nice to look at, Rose decided as he winked at her over the Doctor’s shoulder.

“Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this moment – Rose Tyler herself, pop goddess!” Jack said when Donna pried him apart from the Doctor. “Hello, gorgeous!” He moved closer with a casual grace, almost like dancing, his hand out for a shake.

Rose took his hand and just like that she was folded into his arms, twisted around and dipped backward – they were dancing. She laughed delightedly and his megawatt grin was her reward.

“Oi, Jaaaaack! Ease off, she’s not used to your kind,” the Doctor snapped, not bothering to hide his exasperation.

“What d’ya mean, my kind? American?” he retorted. “I know for a fact Rose has toured the States, she’s had a gander at American beefcake before.”

“All right, boys, get hold of yourselves,” Donna interrupted, extracting Rose from Jack’s arms. She was grateful; managing that on her own might’ve been a bit of trouble. Donna pointed at a chair, and Rose sat down. The Doctor sat beside her, and Jack across the table, next to his sound board, and before she knew it there was a red light and they were on-air.

Their segment was supposed to be a quick promo, a few questions from callers, but the way the conversation went, they might as well have been sitting in a pub chatting over pints. Forty-five minutes later, Jack charmed Donna into the soundbooth, only there weren’t enough microphones to go around, and so she had to share with Jack. It didn’t escape Rose’s attention that Jack’s arm was across the back of Donna’s chair, his fingers playing with her hair, the entire time.

It didn’t escape Donna’s attention, either, and she started to stutter a bit as they bantered on-air.

The Doctor grabbed Rose’s hand under the table and for a split-second she was breathless, wondering what on earth to make of that, except he tugged on her fingers and shot her conspiratorial looks, winking at Jack, and before Hark the Shark’s show was over, Donna was sitting in Jack’s lap.

The entire morning was, Rose decided, one of the best she’d had in months.

PART 2.

fic; doctor who: Losing Bets.

cereal — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 18:40:37 GMT

title: Losing Bets.
co-author: gallifreyburning!
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: PG?
words: 2,518.
notes: This is another "fic tennis" collaboration with gallifreyburning and allrightfine (that's me!) over on Tumblr, switching off every (approximately) 200 words, using the picture under the cut as a prompt. (For a version with the breakdown of who wrote what, you can read it on Tumblr here, too!)
summary: The Doctor has a bet with Jackie, and Rose is determined for him to lose.

He’s a minute away from stomping his foot, Rose can tell.

“I’m not going out there.”

“Yes, Doctor, you are.”

His leg twitches and Rose leans forward, waiting. She’s got a video on her phone of Tony doing the same thing, it’ll be perfect.

“I don’t think you need juice that bad.” He crosses his arms and his leg relaxes. Damn.

“Oh, really?” If she’s honest, she could probably do without the juice, but this bet with her mum has gone on far too long. They’re both acting like nutters, and Rose is putting a stop to it.

“Really!” The Doctor opens the refrigerator roughly, gesturing at the shelves. “Look! Milk, water, Pepsi, drink one of those!”

Rose smiles at him serenely and shakes her head. There’s beer in the fridge, too, and it doesn’t escape her notice that he hadn’t pointed it out.

“But, Rose! Think of all the juice you could buy when I win — that’s 100 quid worth of juice! And you know I’ll lose if I go out there! There are photographers everywhere!”

“I don’t actually need more money for juice, Doctor, and neither do you. This is about you and my mum provoking each other.”

“She started it!” His foot is twitching again. If Rose had made a bet with herself about the foot-stomping, she’d be collecting any moment now.

“Let’s face it, this entire thing is beneath you,” Rose retorts, shaking her head. “You look ridiculous, trying to disguise yourself with the jeans and the blazer — where did you even get that thing, it looks like you skinned a couch! A baseball cap? Really. I think Mum’s not really interested in the bet; she’s just trying to make you look ridiculous in public. And she’s succeeding.”

“I definitely need sunglasses.” Whether he didn’t register what she’s said or he’s simply ignoring her, Rose isn’t sure, but he jumps to his feet and moves to the window, standing to one side and peeking outside. “Big ones. Like that singer wears.”

“You’re not getting sunglasses, Doctor,” Rose says with a sigh, leaning back in the kitchen chair and resting both hands on her stomach. “Yes, definitely orange juice. And now I’m hungry, too. Chinese food from that little place at the end of the block. Dim sum and fried rice.”

He whirls around, sputtering. “But that’s — that’s two different stops, Rose! How can I avoid the paparazzi if…” The force of his argument is lost as he takes in the sight of her, his demeanor shifting from manic distraction to smitten defeat in a heartbeat.

She grins at him, cocking her head and trying not to gloat. The bigger she grows, the easier it is to get what she’s after. The first time she’d sent him for chips at 11 at night – months ago, now – he’d squinted at her, like he was trying to assess if it was a real craving or just a test.

He’d gone though, that time and every time since. The fuss had only started back up again when her mum had made him that stupid bet. As if any of them would be able to get anywhere dodging the press, especially with Rose pregnant and the Doctor’s flare for the ridiculous.

It was through sheer force of will he’d evaded them for this long. Well, evaded them within the terms of the wager. His body had been photographed plenty, limbs askew and ridiculous disguises flapping in the breeze; it was only his face he needed to protect.

(Rose had drawn the line at him leaving the house with a brown paper bag over his head, because of course that was the first thing he’d tried. Little round eyeholes and a square robotic grin – of course.)

Now, as an apparent last ditch effort, he squats in front of her chair, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walks his fingers up the inside seam of her trousers.

“What are the odds we could shift this craving to something more extraterrestrial?”

“We promised Mum we’d keep the TARDIS planetside until the baby’s born,” she replies with a smirk, snatching his hand and bringing it to her lips. Sucking the tip of his index finger into her mouth, she nibbles his skin with her teeth.

The young TARDIS’s navigational controls had been a bit … unpredictable. So the Doctor claimed, when the first time out he brought them home four months later than he’d meant to. The instant Jackie found out Rose was pregnant, she put her foot down about time travel, and Rose wasn’t inclined to argue. Nine months earthbound with the Doctor hadn’t seemed so long at first, but now … well.

“That’s — hmm — not what I’m talking about, and you — ahh-hh! — know it.” He’s on his knees now, leaning forward over her belly as she moves to his ring finger, kissing the pad and making her way down the length of it to his palm. His other hand has found its way up the outside of her thigh and is pulling at the waist of her pants.

“Juice plus dim sum plus fried rice equals happy Rose, yeah? I can’t concentrate when I’m hungry.”

He jumps up, startling her with the sudden shift. “I’ve got a plan!”

She glances down at his jeans, the lack of anything significant going on under the fabric, and he chuckles, “No, not that. Although, if you’ve changed your mind –”

He snatches her hand and presses it to his fly, grinning shamelessly at her as he twitches under her fingers.

With a light squeeze, and a laugh in spite of herself, Rose pulls her hand away. “Your plan?”

It’s a combination of his posture and his facial expression that tell Rose he knows he’s asking for a smack, but he goes ahead anyway.

“Your mum!” The Doctor reaches across the table for his mobile, shoving it into Rose’s hands. “You call your mum and ask her to pick you up your juice and food.”

His voice is getting louder on each word, apparently certain that this is his best idea today.

“She’ll come, of course she’ll come, she’s your mum. I didn’t even plan that to rhyme, it just goes to show how perfect this is, the English language wants it to happen.” He pauses for a breath.

“So, Jackie goes out, the paparazzi get their photo, Rose gets her food, and the Doctor gets 100 quid, and maybe a snog for his brilliance?” He puckers his lips hopefully.

“Mum won’t even send her driver around to pick it up, because she isn’t going to help you win this bet, not in a million years.” Rose leans forward and gives him a peck on his puckered lips before rising to her feet. “Fine. I’ll get my own juice and Chinese. I could do with a walk, anyway. I don’t like being cooped up in the flat for this long.”

The Doctor trails beside her, tugging at her sleeve in a vain attempt to slow her approach to the door. “Nonono, Rose, in your … enlarged state, you can’t execute the evasive maneuvers necessary to avoid the photographers stationed up and down the block. I’ve got a chart, see!”

He snatches a paper from beneath a magnet on the refrigerator, brandishing it in front of her face. It’s a painstakingly drawn map of their neighborhood, labeled with little Gallifreyan circles and color-coded sqares. He scrunches his nose and rubs the back of his neck with his other hand, his voice rising a bit as he gets more animated. “You have to know where to dodge, where to weave, where to dash; you have to know how fast the reaction time of each photographer is, and exactly when to —”

“‘Enlarged state?’” Rose interrupts, eyebrows arching nearly to her hairline. She huffs. “If you’re coming with me, take off that ridiculous baseball hat. Just because the people from G-Star Raw sent you that thing doesn’t mean you have to wear it. When the press publishes these photos, I don’t want you looking like an escapee from a boy band.”

The Doctor looks dejectedly down at his map, then folds it up and reverently slides it into his back pocket. He winces as it crinkles and Rose makes a mental note to get him a lamination machine for Christmas, and maybe a stack of take-away menus, just to give him something to get started.

“I am an escapee from a boy band – on Varzop B. Four months of my life I’ll never get back, that. Not hard to be ‘the cute one’ on a planet of bipedal hyenas. And talk about the press being jackals! Literal jackals!”

He’s steering her away from the door as he talks, clearly hoping she won’t notice. She plants her feet and he walks another few steps, tripping on a pair of discarded Converse before realizing he’s lost her.

She raises her eyebrows again as he rights himself, and she turns back for the door. “I’m going to get my food now, are you going to protect me from the jackals or are you staying here?”

“Oh, I’m coming! I have a contingency plan based on this exact scenario, well, close enough – well, luckily I’ve not been incapacitated by a hoard of roving beasties, but anyway, how would you feel about wearing a hat, too? Nothing gaudy, just a tasteful bowler cap? Maybe a sombrero? Or – oh, Rose?”

His voice is echoing out behind her, lost on the wind, as she makes her way down the front steps.

The Doctor apparently realizes he’s lost the battle and is out of the building like a shot, pulling her into the shadows of the front stoop. Manic gleam in his eye, he deposits his baseball cap on her head.

“Count to sixty, then take the long way to the Chinese restaurant. No matter what happens, Rose, remember that I love you.” He lays his palms on both sides of her face, fingers slipping into her hair, and plants a wet kiss on her mouth. Before she can reply, he’s gone in a flash of long legs, leaping down the front steps onto the sidewalk.

“Don’t mind me! Just out for a bit of fresh air!” he shouts at a post box.

For the first five seconds, his movements are exaggeratedly casual, like a stringless marionette left to its own devices on a London sidewalk. But then the first photographer appears from the nearby alley, enormous zoom lens on his camera, moving in for a better shot. The dam seems to break: a dozen, maybe more, begin to converge on the Doctor, coming from every direction imaginable, flashbulbs popping, and Rose doesn’t want to know how long that guy in the cargo pants was huddled inside their dumpster.

That’s when the Doctor really kicks into gear, and as she watches him move, Rose’s jaw is practically on the ground and she completely forgets how to count to sixty.

In fact, the only thing she can do is the only thing she wants to do, and she’s fitting her mouth around the syllables of his name, “Doctor!”

He skitters to a halt just up the block, turning around with wide eyes that are rapidly blinking at the camera flashes. He seems to realize she hasn’t moved at all and runs back toward her, leaping with unexpected grace over the mass of a photog fallen in the chaos.

When he reaches the stairs again, he jumps up, shielding her body and holding her biceps in his hands. “Rose! What is it? Are you all right? Is it time? Oh, oh! Is it time?!”

She pulls back to get a better look at his face, all flushed and wild and happy – the same way she suddenly feels, the same way she always feels for this mad Doctor of hers.

With a quick tug at the ball cap on her head, she flings it to the side and in the next movement grabs the Doctor’s face.

“I’ll give you a hundred quid,” and she’s pulling his lips down to hers.

He makes a surprised noise and she uses the opening to slip her tongue into his mouth, backing them up to the door and groping blindly for the handle.

His fingers close over hers, force them to stillness. He takes her in his arms, his body bending around her (no small feat considering the size of her belly). She pulls away from his kiss and stares at his mischievous brown eyes, millimeters from hers; at his lips, curled into a smile.

“Oh, we’re not taking this inside, Rose Tyler. Not yet,” he breathes. The photographers’ flashbulbs pop and flare. “If we’re losing this bet to Jackie, we’re doing it in style.”

Yes, those are certainly his hands on her bum. He deftly angles her toward the cameras, and he’s kissing her again, shameless with his tongue (the phrase sucking face crosses her mind). A split-second in she decides what the hell and throws her arms around his shoulders like they’re back on Bad Wolf Bay, fingers threading into his hair and nose pressing so hard into his cheek she can’t breathe.

She hears the snick-snick-snick of rapid-shutter cameras, and from behind closed eyelids she sees flashes of light, but none of it matters because she’s lost — his tongue teasing hers with practiced expertise, the feel of his bottom lip as she sucks it into her mouth, his long fingers clutching at her body, his warm breath suffused across her skin; she never gets tired of this, the taste and the smell and her Doctor.

When he pulls away, he’s grinning like the madman he is. Without even attempting to disguise his glee, he says, “Ooh, Jackie’s going to be furious.”

“Can we go inside now?” Rose says, and she tries to sound exasperated, but it comes out breathy and a bit desperate instead.

With a flourish, the Doctor turns to the paparazzi. “And that concludes the show for this evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your kind attention.”

Epilogue:
The next day the Doctor goes down to the local newspaper stand and buys EVERY gossip rag he can lay his hands on, meticulously cuts out all the photos of him snogging Rose senseless on the front stoop, and spends an hour painstakingly pasting them onto a piece of posterboard. Right in the center of the posterboard collage of himself ravishing Rose in public, he tacks the bank cheque for £100. He presents the posterboard to Jackie at supper that night.

&&.

fic; doctor who: Drapes and Domesticity.

cereal — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 21:02:01 GMT

title: Drapes and Domesticity.
co-author: gallifreyburning!
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: PG-13
words: 2,973.
notes: This is another collaboration with gallifreyburning and allrightfine (that's me!) over on Tumblr, switching off every (approximately) 200 words, using the picture under the cut as a prompt. (For a version with the breakdown of who wrote what, you can read it on Tumblr here, too!)
summary: Rose asks the Doctor to help pick out curtains, and a mild crisis ensues.

Rose asked the Doctor to meet her for some shopping over lunch. They’d done it before, mostly to buy him clothes, a process he tolerated with great patience. Partially because he was just vain enough to enjoy preening in front of the changing room mirrors, partially because he had created a game for himself where he tried to lure Rose into the changing room, claiming he needed an opinion on whether a certain pair of trousers were too tight. After a bit of hot breath and kissing and friction, the trousers were inevitably too tight.

So shopping over lunch wasn’t new, and the Doctor showed up with his usual bright enthusiasm — visions of changing rooms and Rose and full-length mirrors dancing in his head. He wasn’t expecting to be dragged to a fabric store.

“Drapes, Doctor. For the living room. If you’re going to institute Naked Wednesday Night, we’re going to have to take some precautions.”

Suddenly, the Doctor’s head went right back to Krop Tor. To “You’ll have to get a house, with carpet and drapes. You’ll have to get a morrrrt-gage.”

He felt strangely short of breath, panic clawing at his stomach. “I … just realized, I … was supposed to meet Pete today. To talk about that paperwork … for the Torchwood … thing.”

Rose squinted at him, cocking her head in a way that made the Doctor feel like — oh, she knows.

After a long moment of fidgeting under her scrutiny, he watched as she seemed to come to a decision.

“That’s all right,” she said. “Only I’ve just realized — we promised Tony that superhero cape, probably don’t have time to look at cape fabric anddrapes fabric.”

The Doctor felt his heart slow to a calmer rhythm, the hot flush across the back of his neck dissipating. He nodded at her to continue.

“Tony’s obviously more important, so if you have to leave, I can handle it on my own. Drapes can wait a while.”

Now that this trip was no longer about window coverings, he decided it was safe to blow off his fake meeting with Pete, made up as it was.

“No, no, I took the measurements after all, don’t need you buying a cape he’ll be swimming in. That’s a right danger, that is. Or too short! Nothing like try to fight off an evil villain while he’s laughing at your wardrobe choices. Trust me, I’d know.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I thought the trainers and suit thing worked for you,” and she turned on her heel toward more child-friendly fabrics.

“I wasn’t talking about this me! Rose! Rose —”

“S’fine, Doctor,” Rose interrupted brusquely. She yanked a bolt of fabric off the shelf, grey flannel with a yellow bat-shaped symbol woven into it. “Was it Batman? Was that what Tony wanted?”

“Hulk,” the Doctor replied, tugging at the neck of his shirt out of nervous habit. He wasn’t wearing the suit — today it was jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. He had a yearning for those pinstripes at the moment, though. They were his armor, and he definitely felt in need of some protection.
Rose was staring at him, left eyebrow arched in disbelief. “The Hulk doesn’t wear a cape.”

He shrugged and shook his head. “The whims of a child are difficult to understand, Rose. Logic just doesn’t apply.”

For some reason, she smirked and giggled. “Oh, Doctor. Tell me about it.”

“I have the distinct feeling I should be offended,” he said, shoving his hands into his jean pockets, but she’d already turned her back and continued down the aisle toward a bolt of green fabric, so he couldn’t see her expression.

The Doctor was disappointed to learn that fabric stores didn’t have changing rooms. In the parking lot, Rose put the yards of green cotton/polyester blend in his hands and gave him a peck on the cheek. She hopped in her car without a look back and was gone.

He stood where she’d left him until his hands grew sweaty around the fabric. He’d taken the tube to the store, figuring he’d catch a lift with Rose wherever she was going next.

At the time he’d made his transportation decisions, that was hopefully going to be back to the flat for a lunch shag. Now he was stuck without a ride, without a shag, and was Rose – she was mad at him, wasn’t she? Or was it disappointed?

Maybe walking home would help him figure it out.

It did not.

Back in the flat, the sunlight streaming through the windows seemed unnaturally bright and warm, and the necessity of drapes was immediately apparent.

Why had he reacted like that? Plenty of domestics in his life now. Meeting your girlfr – your Rose on a lunch break, that was domestic. Waking up in the same bed as her, curling up on the couch together, dinner at the kitchen table, domestic, domestic, domestic.

He’d jumped head first into all of that, for the most part. Maybe drapes could be the same. After unraveling the fabric for Tony’s cape, he found a roll of packaging tape and set to covering the windows, just to see. It wouldn’t be permanent, but he could try it out – drapes, in their flat.

And if Rose wanted to take advantage of the temporarily increased privacy, well, he was never one to deny her.

It was Wednesday, after all. And she had agreed last week that Nudity Wednesday Night was a brilliant idea.

The Doctor changed into his pinstripes — this kind of experiment certainlyrequired the proper armor. And transdimensional pockets didn’t hurt, either. He worked all afternoon, and by the time Rose came home after work, he was quite proud of the progress he’d made.

Tony’s superhero cape fabric was taped over the windows like blackout curtains gone into a Hulk-y green rage. The clean laundry was folded into perfect hexagons and stacked on the couch. The carpet was spotless — a bit threadbare, too, since he’d jiggered with the suction power of the vacuum and accidentally sucked away most of the pile. But it wasundeniably dirt-free.

Dishes were carefully laid out on the table, the scent of cooking food filled the flat, and every candle Rose had ever owned had been pulled out and scattered across all the level surfaces. An old boombox sat on the counter, tape cued to “In Your Eyes” and ready to go — that bit had required a trip to the second-hand shop down the street, but according to the Doctor’s research, it would be worth it.

Rose stood outside the open front door, key still held up in her hand from unlocking the bolt, surveying his handiwork with eyes wide and mouth agape.

He could tell from the way her blazer was still on and her blouse was still done up a Torchwood-appropriate amount of buttons that she, too, had felt the need for armor. Usually by the time she was coming through the door, she had dismantled work-Rose, at least a bit.

It was a good job he’d prepared so thoroughly then.

Rushing to greet her, he plucked the glass of wine from where it was waiting for her on the coffee table.

He presented it to her with a flourish, leaning over to kiss her cheek and ushering her into the flat.

“Welcome home!”

Rose still looked gob-smacked, “You, you — what did you do?”

“I revisited my stance on drapes! Turns out, I’m firmly in support of drapes, I’m pro-drapes, drapes-affirmative, drapes and I go together likes peas and carrots. If drapes were on a ballot —“

Rose held up her hand and then took a long sip of her wine, “Slow down there, Forrest Gump.”

It wasn’t an out-and-out dismissal of his efforts, which he was grateful for, although the guarded look on her face implied that perhaps he ought to wait a bit before the opening ceremonies for Nudity Wednesday Night.
He took a breath and tried his best to slow his speech.

“I’ve made dinner. I thought we could eat and I could try and explain why I invented a meeting to avoid shopping for window coverings.”

Rose plopped down on the sofa, shrugging off her jacket, and stared at him expectantly.

“Nononononono, at the table. I made dinner,” he said, doing an excellent job of hiding his pride in his cooking prowess.

Rose’s mouth did a funny twisting thing and a half-stifled snort of laughter escaped her, but she obligingly came to the table. The Doctor strutted to the oven, pulled a flowered apron off a nearby hook and girded himself, tying it around his waist, before donning oven mitts and gingerly pulling open the oven door. With a triumphant noise, he snatched the food out of the oven and brought it to the table, plopping the round pan in front of Rose.

“Frozen pizza?” she asked, biting her bottom lip and trying unsuccessfully to smother a smile.

“It’s got mushrooms and olives, your favorite!”

Her smile was completely out of control now, containing it seemed beyond her capabilities. “It is my favorite. And it looks delicious.”

The Doctor fetched their wine glasses, sliced the pizza, and then sat down across from her.

“So, Doctor,” Rose said after they’d eaten a few bites. “You invented a meeting to avoid shopping for drapes?”

“Riiiiiiiiight,” he replied, clearing his throat and taking a very undainty swig of wine.

Rose was watching him expectantly.

“Well, see, the thing was –”

If he knew what the thing was, they wouldn’t be in this situation, he would’ve dealt with the thing months ago, sat it down, said, listen, thing, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but you’re really sticking my foot in it with Rose so maybe shove off, ta.

But instead he had an indefinable sense of fear and anxiety and a tendency to blurt words out without thinking them through, a tendency he was apparently going to be showcasing right this very moment.

“– domestics.”

Rose pushed her chair back from the table and took a deep breath, looking the Doctor up and down.

“You are literally wearing a flowered apron.”

Oh, brilliant, Rose was just going to accept his non-answer and let them move on. Nudity Wednesday: back on the table! Ah, the table, that’s a thought, would the wood be smooth enough, or would there be a splinter-risk? Rose would probably have an opinion –

“– and I just can’t understand, I mean, it’s hard for me to gauge what it’ll be this time. Paint the bedroom? Totally fine! Ask you to pick up more bread? Sulk right through the evening! Breakfast for dinner was your idea, Doctor.”

Had she been talking this whole time?

“I like waffles in the evening, it’s true,” he said slowly, rubbing his jaw and staring at her mouth, as though if he concentrated hard enough he could hear the words she had just spoken, like an echo. Or maybe she wouldn’t mind if he just started kissing those lips. That would also be an acceptable outcome.

Rose rolled her eyes. The Doctor resigned himself to the reality that kissing seemed optimistic to hope for at this point in the evening. “I need a field guide to Time Lords with domestic paranoia disorder, Doctor. I just don’t know what to do with you.”

“I’ve never been average, not for a Time Lord and certainly not for a human,” the Doctor blurted. “But now I’m both, and sometimes I like breakfast for dinner, but curtains feel oppressive — except, ironically, the curtains in the dungeon of the High Lord of Bramgilla, where they were a lovely shade of daffodil yellow.”

Rose stared at him like he was speaking nonsense. He did a quick mental review of the last several seconds, determined that he’d actually been speaking English instead of accidentally slipping into Gallifreyan or Farsi. Obviously, tales of Bragmilla weren’t going to get his point across. He gestured to his flowery apron and the flat in general, to everything domestic in the vicinity. “I’m trying, Rose. Really, I am.”

She sighed and the Doctor let his shoulders slump. Was this what happened to other couples? Just the same fight, over and over, in different forms, for their entire lives?

Because that was far scarier than some silly drapes.

“I know you’re trying, Doctor. I know,” she leaned forward to take his hand, curling her fingers in and batting at his thumb with her own. Could they settle this with thumb-wrestling? He was brilliant at thumb-wrestling. He took a few experimental swipes and Rose pinned him easily.

So much for that.

“Is it that trying isn’t good enough? Because I’ll get better. At trying. At not having to try? You tell me what to get better at, and I’ll get better at it.”
Rose’s thumb pressed down on his own again, “That’s just it – I’m always telling you things. You never tell me, you just shut down, walk away,” she released his hand to gesture with hers, a quick, flighty wave, “invent a meeting.”

He felt so tired all of the sudden, was he supposed to try and make her happy or was he supposed to tell her things? Because those two actions didn’t always go hand in hand.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Rose. Would it have been helpful, in the middle of a fabric store, on your lunch hour, to tell you that the thought of picking out drapes terrifies me? Drapes aren’t a necessity, they’re not floors or doors or painting over the charred marks from a minor explosion in the bedroom. Drapes mean you’re settling in, making it a home, that you’re happy enough where you are to – I don’t know – accessorize.”

A certain kind of comprehension dawned across Rose’s face, like she’d forgotten some inexorable fact that had just made itself plain again. “You’re … still you.”

She said the words like they should mean something to him — did they? He scoured his memory; he remembered everything when it came to Rose. Every brush of skin, every glint of sunlight off her hair, every gaze met and word spoken, the minutiae contained in a hundred thousand seconds of their shared life, whether he’d had two hearts or one beating inside of his chest. Everything was indexed in the vast catalogue of his mostly-Time Lord brain, but those words — you’re still you – they didn’t exist.

The realization was an unsettling one. The Doctor did what he always did when he felt unsettled: reached for Rose’s hands again, threaded fingers together.

Eyes locked to hers, feeling more than a bit lost and failing to hide the fact, he told her the truth, “I’m still me.”

To his further bafflement, her face scrunched up, chin quivering and brows furrowing as she tried to fight off tears. She practically threw herself across the table and into his lap, arms wrapping around him and face buried in his neck.

“S’okay, Doctor. I can pick out the drapes, if you don’t want to. Or we can sell the flat and find one without windows. Or we can borrow Pete and Mum’s camper and wander every back-road between here and Shanghai. Just tell me so we can do it together, instead of running away to made-up meetings.”

The Doctor saw with perfect clarity that there was going to come a time when she was going to have to explain to him what had just happened. Because he saw, also with perfect clarity, that he wasn’t going to get there on his own.

But that time wasn’t right now.

Right now was for hugging her back, wrapping his arms around her, telling her he loved her.

“I love you, Rose. I’ll tell you about every problem, every fear I have, if that’s what you want.”

She pulled back to look at him, “Yeah? You could really do that? You won’t feel like you have to shoulder everything alone, like you have to protect me?”

He picked at a piece of a lint near her shoulder before forcing himself to look her in the eye.

“Oh, I’ll always feel a little like that, I expect. But I can do it anyway. I hate the thought that I’m hurting you more, by trying not to hurt you.”

She pulled closer to him for another hug, “That’s exactly it. It hurts, Doctor.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the soft, warm glow that was Rose.

When he opened them again, his eyes focused on the clock. It was early enough yet to still take advantage of those makeshift drapes.

Tapping her leg to get her to stand, he rose, too, and rested his fingers on the clasp of her trousers. She arched her eyebrows, a look that clearly implied he was being awfully brave with that move.

“Shall I start telling you my problems and fears now?”

She glanced back down at his hands, “Sure.”

“I have a problem with all these clothes you’re wearing and I fear that I won’t be able to get them all off of you as fast as I’d like.”

Rose grinned at him, hands rising to the buttons of her blouse, “Quicker with two."

&&.

fic; doctor who: Firefighting.

cereal — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 19:57:12 GMT

title: Firefighting.
co-author: gallifreyburning!
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: PG-13
words: 2,788.
notes: This was part of a fic tennis experiment with gallifreyburning and allrightfine (that's me!) over on Tumblr -- we passed a fic back and forth every (approximately) 200 words, using the picture under the cut as a prompt. (For a version with the breakdown of who wrote what, you can read it on Tumblr here, too!)
summary: A business trip, a slightly burnt flat, and several different attempts to have a proper reunion.

It's the longest they've been separated since they arrived back in this world. Barely a week, but somehow it feels longer. Somehow it feels like ages since the morning she'd left, the Doctor chasing her around the kitchen in his boxers and pinning her to the counter with his hips.

Legs stretched in front of her as far as they'd go in cramped zeppelin seating, she'd fingered the foil edges of her packet of peanuts, decidedly not partaking. Who'd decided on garlic seasoning for a cramped cabin and the promise of reunion kisses? What she wouldn't give for something honey-roasted.

She'd tried to imagine seeing him again, would it be in slow motion? Romantic comedies and indie rock? Or frantic and hurried and flashes from the paparazzi?

So, really, she's not prepared at all for him to be in the passenger lounge, arm slung peculiarly over his head and for her first words to be about his clothes, but she can't stop it, bubbling out and —

"What's with the shoes?"

Of course it isn't just the lack of Chucks – it's the t-shirt and jeans, too, and before he can answer her first question she jokingly babbles on, "Did the flat burn down with your blue suit inside or something?"

He bounds out of his chair — Arcade Fire plays in her head, definitely a romantic comedy — and he stoppers her questions with his mouth, tongue confident as it slides past her lips; he's shameless and eager, all but taking her in a manly fashion on the cold tiles of the dirigible port. And as much as he doesn't look like himself, he certainly tastes and feels and smells like her Doctor.

When he pulls away, there's a crowd of ten or so people staring, a few of them with camera-phones, and dammit this is going to end up on the internet, the Vitex heiress and her beau making a spectacle of themselves. Pete's not going to be happy.

"It was a small fire," the Doctor says, oblivious to the crowd and loud enough for the camera-phones to pick up. "Wellllllllll, small-ish to medium. Medium-ish. I wasn't in the suit when it burned, if that's any comfort."

Rose steps back a little, trying to put enough space between them that not every photo will look like two people trying to merge into one. She squints at him, checking for any sign of harm, and then raises up to ruffle the top of his head.

"No, clearly. All that product in your hair? You'd have gone up first," she nudges his side and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the exit.

"Did you have a good trip?" He squeezes her tighter to him, "I missed you, you know."

"I did, felt like more than a week. I appreciated all the voicemails though — you singing along to the "Cheers' theme song was a personal favorite."

"It's not the same watching television without you," he sighs and Rose imagines it's because watching television always turns into snogging on the couch.

"I still can't believe that's not an American show here. I suppose the idea of wanting to go where everyone knows your name is a universal one. Well, except on —"

If she doesn't stop him, he's going keep it up the whole way home and she's going to walk into a potentially charred flat with no idea how it got that way.

"Doctor, the fire?"

"Fixable, very very fixable. Nothing to worry about," he replies briskly. They bypass baggage claim, since she's only got her carry-on. They also bypass the taxi and limo pick-up area, heading directly for short-term parking; which means the Doctor drove Rose's car to the dirigible port, he didn't let Jackie send the car and driver. "I've already thought of half a dozen appliances I can build that'll be much better for our kitchen than the generic stove and microwave-things everyone buys off-the-shelf."

"You burned down the kitchen," Rose says, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. The other's around his waist, and she's tempted to use it to poke him in that spot where he's particularly ticklish, if only because she's so exasperated.

"None of the neighbors' flats sustained any damage. They are all lovelypeople, by the way – standing on the street at three in the morning while the firemen do their thing is excellent for neighborly bonding. It's amazing how social barriers break down when everyone's wearing jimjams and houserobes. I invited the Kapoors for dinner, once our kitchen's back up and running. I told them how brilliant I am at making waffles; they couldn't say no, after that."

Tales of the neighbors last all the way out to the car and onto the road. The Doctor's just telling her how old Mr. Bennett from across the hall congratulated him on landing Rose and, "then said some things that I won't repeat, Rose, but maybe don't wear that blue skirt around Mr. Bennett anymore. It is tight and he has noticed," when he drives past the turn for the flat.

"Are we not going home?" She's craning her neck, looking backward as the exit gets smaller and smaller.

The Doctor pulls at his ear, "It's possible — and I'm not saying that I agree with this assessment — that the smoke from the fire caused some damage that perhaps makes our flat a bit of a safety hazard. Just briefly."

Rose's visions of a proper reunion with the Doctor, back in their bed, dissolve. Chin up, she optimistically replaces them with visions of plush hotel mattresses and room service.

"Where'd you book us in then?"

He stops pulling at his ear to scratch at the back of his neck, running right down the list of Doctor-with-anxiety tics.

"Great little place, you might know it — the Tyler Mansion?" He briefly turns his head to look at her sheepishly before making the turn for her parents' house.

"Please tell me," Rose says more tersely than she intends, "you insisted my mum put us in the pool house." Her hopes of a naked weekend and a competitive game of most creative use of ice cream toppings are rapidly vanishing.

"Ohhh, you know how Tony is. He loves it when we're over for supper; he's been over-the-moon that we're staying for a bit. Insisted we have the room right next to his, matter of fact." He sees her expression and goes into his there-are-too-many-words-in-my-big-Time-Lord-brain-and-they-won't-all-fit-out-of-my-mouth stutter. "But there was a thing – no two things – three if you count the round of Monopoly I lost – and –"

"It's all right," Rose says, burying her face in her hands as they pull past the security gate and into the front drive.

He brings the car to a stop and turns to look at her hopefully. "You mean you forgive me for burning down the flat?"

"I mean that you're the one who's going to tell my mum and Tony that we're moving into the pool house. And you're going to have to come up with a reason to explain why."

His lips are moving the whole walk up to the house, face shifting into different expressions, presumably rehearsing the best way to break the news to Tony.

Moments after Jackie opens the door and sweeps Rose up into a hug, it's clear that the Doctor won't have to do any news-breaking after all — Jackie announces she'd already moved their stuff to the pool house.

"You two haven't seen each other for a week! You think I need my sweet, innocent boy exposed to those noises?" Jackie pins Rose with a disapproving look before turning it on the Doctor.

"Mum!" Rose blushes despite herself.

"Don't give me that, Rose Tyler!" Jackie's voice pitches higher, imitating her daughter's, "'I don't know where these bruises on my neck came from, Mum!'"

The Doctor looks momentarily proud before both women glare at him, Rose shifting to step on his foot for good measure.

Jackie walks them through the house, grumbling the whole way. "Next you'll try and convince me that photo of the two of you with your skirt pushed up in the alley was just this one," she thumbs at the Doctor, "Checking for ticks."

The Doctor has the good sense to blush this time, "Well, you know, very tick-y population, London," and he all but sprints out the door to the pool house.

Rose gives her mum a final hug and an apologetic look before setting off after him, the sound of her mum's voice fading behind her —

"Tea in 15 minutes! Tony is expecting to see you!"

The Doctor flings the door of the pool house open and turns around at a dead stop, so that Rose crashes into him. He's mumbling things into her skin as he kisses her, lips seeking bare flesh, long fingers yanking on her shirt to expose more.

"Missed you," he says, making short work of the buttons down her front. "Does this count as make-up sex? It did occur to me that make-up sex might be an unintended side effect, since I burned down the flat."

"We have to have the angry sex first. Because I am unhappy about the kitchen. All our dishes and the good saki. And your suit. Gone," Rose gasps as his tongue finds the spot on her neck. That spot.

He hums in agreement as she fumbles with the front of his trousers. "If it helps with the angry bit, I should tell you that your laptop and your collector's edition boxset of Cheers were also ruined." She's not fumbling anymore, she's glaring, and with a yank, the button pops right off his trousers and skitters across the floor.

"Angry sex, then make-up sex," the Doctor says happily. "Then we can move on to the welcome-home sex. Then there's –"

Whatever else there is, Rose doesn't get to find out because of the knocking noise at the nearest window.

It's just a random enough pattern that Rose can tell it's Tony — the sound of little fingers hitting at the window as he jumps to be able to reach.

Her theory is confirmed when the knocking moves to the door, followed by her brother's voice.

"Rose, you're home! You're home! Mum said you'd be at tea, but I couldn't wait, the Doctor built me a fort! Would you like to play in the fort? Come play, Rose!"

It's not lost on her that the rambling speech patterns of a five-year-old match those of the man currently dropping to the ground to find the button of his trousers.

She buttons up her shirt swiftly, toeing the button across the wooden floor to the Doctor, and gesturing for him to do something.

He stands and moves the button to his trousers, lost without a way to reattach it, and then stares at Rose helplessly, "What — what should I do?"

She glares at him as Tony knocks again, "Change your trousers!" As an afterthought she gestures to his fly, "And get that under control."

The Doctor shuffles through the drawers and pulls out his new clothing, scampering off to the bathroom as Rose opens the door for her brother.

Jackie is barreling up the walk behind him, staring pointedly at Rose's shirt front — damn, she skipped a button.

"Tony saw your car pull up and couldn't be contained," Jackie said as Rose made short work of the skipped button. "You know how he is, when the Doctor's around." Jackie sucks on her teeth and narrows her eyes before calling to the empty room behind Rose: "How long did that contractor say till your flat is fixed, Doctor?"

"Er, um, contractor?" comes a reply from behind the closed bathroom door. "He said something about a month."

"Is the Doctor sick?" Tony asks, bounding into the room and toward the source of the voice. Rose catches him by the shoulder before he flings open the door and things get even more awkward. Spinning Tony around, she sweeps him into a hug.

"You didn't even say hallo to your sister," Rose chides, tickling him mercilessly. He's squealing and wiggling. "Tell me about this fort of yours that the Doctor built."

"'S awesome!" he giggles. "'S got a perception-something, and Mum and Dad don't know where it is. Even I can only find it sometimes."

"Perception filter?" Rose asks. "He made you a fort with a perception filter on it?"

"I can't find Tony half the time," Jackie sighed. "It's like he vanishes. And let's be clear: when you both move out of here in a month, you're taking the perception-whatsit with you."

And suddenly Rose knows exactly where she's going to take the Doctor after tea.

Because they're them and they have their luck, tea turns into an hours-long affair, with awkward conversation topics ranging from: "Why Rose just shrieked" to "Doctor, you get your hand out from under the table and off my daughter right this second."

There are also some stern looks.

By the time they're finally winding down, Tony is asleep curled up in the Doctor's lap — a place Jackie deliberately set the boy after a bit of encore yelping on Rose's part. Her mum and Pete announce they're going to bed and that the Doctor and Rose can get Tony settled in bed, as penance.

Tony goes down, thankfully, without a fuss, snuffling into his pillow as Rose creeps after the Doctor out of the room.

Then he's yanking her down the stairs and into the supply pantry, usually reserved for bulk food and drinks for parties, but now littered with children's toys and a pile of blankets and pillows.

She whirls on him as soon as the door's closed and he bites off a groan as Rose skips the lead up and goes straight to cupping him through his trousers.

"Is this the angry sex?" He drops his head back against the wood with a groan before quickly recovering to latch his mouth at the join of her neck and shoulder.

"This is the right now sex," and she moves her hand out of the way to grind her hips into his, stuttering in her movements as she feels his teeth on her skin.

"You look ridiculous in this t-shirt," she says, yanking it off over his head. His hair is more out-of-control than usual; it looks like a wild animal, startled by something. "Whatever made you buy t-shirts instead of another suit?"

His hands are at her hips, fingers digging into skin as he encourages her movements. "Jake took me shopping," he gasps into her neck, his entire body arched down toward her. Without warning he shifts his grip, grabbing her by the arse and lifting her up, moving forward until her back lands against the opposite wall and she squeaks in surprise.

Her legs wrap around him, her hands find purchase in his gloriously rumpled hair, and she tries pulling his mouth to hers again, but he resists. She blinks at him, arching her eyebrows at him as he studies her face.

"I couldn't sleep while you were gone. I burned down the kitchen at three in the morning trying to cook crepes, the banana ones you make for me when I'm restless in the middle of the night." He leans his forehead to hers and closes his eyes with a long sigh, tip of his nose brushing her cheek. "I missed you, Rose."

"I woke up crying the second night," she replies quietly, fingertips rubbing his scalp. "Because I had a dream you'd never come back here with me. I thought you were still over there, on the other side, locked away."

Rose presses little kisses to the corner of his mouth, sucking gently on his bottom lip. His hips are moving against her, his hands tearing at buttons, and he gasps, "Can this be the no-more-business-trips sex?"

"Yeah, Doctor," Rose replies. "Yeah, it can."

After the no-more-business-trips sex in the supply pantry, they only barely make it back to the pool house for the angry sex. And then the make-up sex. And after that, Rose makes the Doctor banana crepes.

&&.

fic; Doctor Who: and other gerunds. / program worldwide.

cereal — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:35:36 GMT

title: and other gerunds.
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: PG?
words: 608.
notes: These are two ficlets cross-posted from Tumblr, from prompts. This one is here over there.

"I love walking, Rose, I do. It's my second-favorite gerund after running. Well, and after the sexual ones, kissing and shagging and licking and, oh, there are a lot of that type, aren't there? Still, it's definitely in my top 20."

Rose is not going to be swayed by this, wherever this is going -- the car is in the shop and they're more than halfway there, but he keeps talking anyway.

"But did you have to pick such a windy night for it? And where am I supposed to steal off to when your mother gets to be too much to handle? You know she will. She'll keep chasing me around with that ring, trying to get me to take it, like I can't procure something as simple as a ring on my own."

She steps neatly out of the way of a piece of gum stuck to the sidewalk, not missing a beat.

"It's sentimental, Doctor. She wants her old ring to go to me, so I can pass it on to my daughter someday."

"Well, then she should just give it over, shouldn't she? Why insert a middle man into this? Seems entirely unnecessary."

This is a well-worn conversation, one Rose has given up on trying to mediate. If she tells the Doctor to take it, it looks like she's telling him she wants a proposal.

(Not that she's opposed to that, on principle, just that she wants him to get there on his own. Well, mostly.)

If she tells her mum to stop pestering him, she's left to deal with Jackie Tyler theatrics, of the "my only daughter is never getting married" variety.

Instead, she distracts him.

"You know, the car wouldn't be in the shop if someone hadn't tried to change the fuel system on their own."

The Doctor stops walking, aghast, looking every bit like she'd slapped him. Or maligned his hair.

"That fuel system was an insult to this planet and, as it's the only one I'm living on presently, it's in my best interest to preserve it."

Admittedly, Rose knows the Land Rover was a gas guzzler. A gas monster -- an Abzorbaloff, even. They'd picked it up for a song at an employee auction when Torchwood started its green initiative -- a fact that went a long way in indicating how not-green it was. But changing over to something more eco-friendly should've been done by a mechanic, not by the Doctor and a malfunctioning sonic screwdriver.

Which is how it had found its way to a garage in the end anyway.

"I think it's brilliant that you want to save the Earth and everything, Doctor, but maybe leave the car stuff to the car people."

He starts muttering then, words like, "Bessie" and "insult" and "Time Lord," but she lets it go. Mostly because they're at their destination, but also because any implication that he -- this human Doctor, that is -- can't do something, seems to lead to a frenzy where he concentrates only on mastering that skill for weeks at a time. This is how the entire Tyler family, and house staff, had ended up with hand-crotched afghans.

And bi-level birdhouses.

And macrame key chains.

(But it's also how she'd ended up with consistent, multiple orgasms -- although she may have played him on that one. Just a little bit.)

He's still mumbling by the time they've passed the coat check. And he keeps it up all the way into the party, where her parents are waiting.

It takes her mum 10 minutes to start up with the ring.

It takes the Doctor 10 seconds to pull out his own.

title: program worldwide.
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: PG-13 (f-word!).
words: 513.
notes: This one is here on Tumblr.

She should've known from the $83 in iTunes charges on her credit card statement. The ones he'd said were for "music to meta-crisis by."

And it's not like she really asked him what kind of music it was. She'd just assumed it was, like, experimental or out there or space-themed. Stuff like David Bowie and Pink Floyd or Animal Collective and Muse.

There was nothing to suggest, then, that he'd suddenly decided they needed to visit the west coast of America for any reason other than wanderlust. Nothing to suggest he meant anything by, "California, Rose! California knows how to party."

And if he'd gleefully donned his Chucks, and noted, seemingly apropos of nothing, that they were not Bally's, well, the Doctor says random things all the time. Rose can't keep track of all of it.

They were in Compton before she figured it out.

When they get back home, the Doctor is greeted with balloons and hugs from several female members of the Torchwood staff.

He turns to Rose and she takes him in, hair sticking up, suit rumpled, and a serious look on his face.

He meets her eye and solemnly tells her, "I'm not a player, I just crush a lot."

It's not that bad, Rose assures herself. It's good he's found something he enjoys. It's better than the way he lampoons every movie she makes him watch.

She is wrong.

"I would've thought this was an understood part of agency decorum, but the annual Torchwood paintball team-building exercise is not the appropriate place to 'go HAM.'"

Pete is standing in front of the field teams, unsmiling, but he's a little amused, Rose can see it.

"While I, and the other board members, appreciate enthusiasm, that kind of language will no longer be tolerated."

The lesson sticks until the Doctor's presentation to that same board about increased funding for the R&D labs.

Rose watches it happen in slow motion -- the Doctor walks to the podium, shuffles his papers, clears his throat, and speaks.

"Put the fucking mic on."

They have to suspend him. Pete apologetically tells them that he has to make an example of someone, that they support field agents using unique methods to amp up for dangerous missions, but that it should be done in the training field house, not in the executive conference room.

When he reprograms the thermostat to just shy of boiling and looks at Rose pointedly for 10 minutes before she finally tells him it's, "hot in here," she almost draws the line. Then he giggles for another 10 minutes. So, clearly the target demo for rap music, her giggling Doctor.

She lets it continue. Lets it slide when he passes on a lucrative freelance job because, "more money creates more problems, Rose. Honestly, it's like you haven't even been listening to me."

It takes two more weeks before it's out of his system. The next day there are more iTunes charges on her credit card statement.

The Doctor buys four cans of hairspray and something leopard printed on lunch.

Rose hides his iPod.

fic; Doctor Who: love with the electric sound.

cereal — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 02:21:19 GMT

title: love with the electric sound.
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: R.
words: 3,255.
notes: The first 600 words of this are cross-posted from this Tumblr post, using the picture there as a prompt. Obviously it got a lot longer, and a lot (sort of) smuttier. Title from Free Energy's 'Dream City.'
summary: 10.5 and Rose, adventures in dirty text messaging.

It starts out innocently enough.

  Well, it starts out ironically enough.

  She's sitting in a company-wide seminar, put on by human resources, about sexual harassment, when her phone vibrates.

  I just spent an entire meeting thinking about your breasts. Is that normal?

  She writes back carefully neutral, trying to decide if it's a thing he actually needs reassurance on -- unsure if this is a real question, like he frequently asks, about the ins and outs of human living, or if he's baiting her.

    Maybe  , she types out.

  And then a second later another thought:

  Too much distraction will get you written up though.

  Not that Pete would write the Doctor -- wunderkind of health beverage publicity -- up. He's doing great things for Vitex, spending most of his time there and only setting foot inside Torchwood when absolutely necessary (so, every third alien emergency).  

Her phone goes off again a minute later, a block of text filling the screen.  

On the contrary, I suggested a drink with hints of cinnamon for the holiday season, to rave reception, you should know. And that's due to the smell of your body wash and the way it clings to the skin of your chest.  

She's still not got her footing and leaves it be. A moment passes, another arrives:

  I'll be buying a case when it comes out.  

The next is sent a week later, from a radio interview for Vitex's new fall offerings. Rose had listened from her computer, typing out a report as the Doctor talked about things like Harvest Blast and Pumpkin Surprise.  

I want to bite the round of your shoulder like an apple.

  Rose's face goes hot, still stuck at her desk. She watches the text on the screen scroll by to make room for more.

Do you suppose that's a sign I'm not getting enough iron?

It continues from there, sometimes three times a day, sometimes not for a month.  

She's not once responded in kind, even though she wants to -- wants to tell him about how the smooth marble of the conference table reminds her of that skin above his belly button where the hair stops and she could lick for an hour.

  Or about how the scratchy wool of her trousers reminds her of the brush of his sideburns against her thighs.

  Or about how perfect her desk would be for decidedly non-work related activities.

  Because she's still not sure if he understands the rush of heat and the way she's taken to wearing those trousers over and over, just so she can have the friction of something when she closes her legs in a debriefing.

  It's been four months of this, four months of never bringing it up at home, in bed, where it belongs, when he finally graduates to a picture message.  

A grainy shot of the front of his trousers, the bottom of his belt just visible at the top, but clear enough to tell his zipper isn't quite pulled closed, fills her phone, followed by a message.  

How do I get this stain out?

  She saves the picture down to the phone's memory and writes back the only logical way.  

What stain?  

The grape Vitex stain! Can't you see it? It's all wet! Soaked right through to my pants!

  And she understands again the way the Doctor talks about seeing timelines, all laid out in front of him and turning on a moment.

  Because she sees the two ways this could go. There's "rinse it with cold water and put on the spares from your desk," and there's the way she goes instead:  

Kind of dealing with my own wet pants situation over here.

  His response is immediate:

  Did you spill your lunch, too? We're quite a pair!  

She waits, watches her phone light up again a moment later.  

Oh.

&&.

It's not that he didn't realize what he was doing.

Well, not that he didn't eventually realize what he was doing.

But it was a company phone, after all, and Rose never seemed interested, and getting too in to it would just be embarrassing for everyone. Like that time he totally misunderstood the purpose of chicken fights in the Tyler pool and had to skip the entire salad course of the barbecue trying to calm himself down.

(Honestly, Rose in a bikini, with her legs wrapped around his neck -- he's still not sure how he was the one getting it wrong. Nevermind that they were ostensibly fighting Jake and that nice girl from R&D. As far as the Doctor was concerned, that was completely ancillary to what was actually going on.)

So when Rose finally decided to join in on adventures in dirty texting, it was more of a pleasant surprise than anything he'd been angling for. Much.

But it left him at a loss, how far was it really supposed to go? It was one thing to say something filthy while getting ready to do something filthy. It was quite another to type it out, all premeditated, in the middle of a press conference.

He'd already had to hand off the actual running of the event to a subordinate, covered in juice as he was. Did he really want to add getting hard into the mix?

Yeah. Yeah, he probably did.

Just as he was debating the merits of a harmless emoticon versus a graphic screed on just how he'd remove those wet knickers, his phone rattled in his hand.

It's fine now, I took them off.

Well, there was that decided for him, can't very well remove knickers she was no longer wearing. And now an emoticon just seemed childish. With a glance at the room to make sure the press were all finding their seats, the Doctor ducked out into the back hall.

Remind me -- skirt or trousers today?

He bounced on his toes a few times, hoping Rose was going to keep her phone nearby. Having this conversation with half-hour breaks didn't seem ideal.

Trousers, the navy ones.

The Doctor squinted, trying to remember what those looked like. Were they the ones that were sort of high-waisted? They were! All expensive wool, tight and molded to her arse.

I like those.

Oh god, is this tea with Jackie? Hardly a very provocative response. Through the doors, he could hear the press conference starting up and he furiously tapped out another text.

I like them better on the floor.

Great, now he'd probably made her think of how he forgot the laundry. This seemed needlessly complicated. Best just to start over and cut straight to the point.

But they do make your already-amazing bum look especially amazing.

There. Covered all his bases. He stuck his head in to the press conference and watched Thomas field a few questions about the new diet line before his phone went off again.

Anything in particular you'd like to do with my amazing bum?

There was an entire novel, a series of novels, even, of things he'd like to do with her amazing bum, but he picked the very first thought.

Run my hands down your back to the curve of it and use it to pull you against me.

Rose's response came just as he was noticing that the Vitex on his trousers and pants had dried, leaving a slight stiffness to the fabric that wasn't as unpleasant as it could've been.

I love your hands, those long fingers, so good at

And that was it. The end of the message. What, what were his fingers good at? He desperately wanted to know. He began to pace the hall. This could be a tease, to make him tell her what he wanted to use his fingers on, or it could be a sign of distress -- she could have been attacked. He heard applause coming from the conference room and reached out to dial Rose, when she messaged him again.

Sorry, gotta go, weevils.

&&.

It wasn't that she'd meant to strand him like that. She really had wanted to see where he'd take it. She should've known aliens would interfere -- when had they not?

All the same, she couldn't bring herself to just jump back into it.

There hadn't been time to bring it up last night, dragging herself into the house, covered in mud and exhausted.

But now, now she'd been doing paperwork from yesterday's case all morning and the rest of the day full of more of it stretched out in front of her. Surely she could find the time for a quick message in between forms.

Typing in all the passwords to re-enter the encrypted server, she's struck with inspiration.

She pulls out a sheet of paper and scribbles down the alphabet forwards and then underneath that, she writes it backward.

Glancing at the code for reference, she types out her message.

R / DZMG / GL / UFXP / BLF.

It's a simple sentence, and easily cracked, but she feels satisfied that it's a good way to ease back into -- whatever this is.

His reply comes less than a minute later.

Why, Rose Tyler, I'd like to fuck you, too.

She's barely got a moment to realize she was hoping for something more when a picture message arrives. A photo of lines and circles, drawn in pen on a napkin.

You know I don't speak Gallifreyan.

She squints at the drawing again.

Are you implying I would use the language of my fallen people for a quick thrill?

She pauses, trying to decide if he's serious. Anything from his past is always approached on his terms, maybe this is something with more weight.

Her phone chimes again.

Because that is exactly what I'm doing.

Rose feels a swell of relief.

Quick thrill for whom? I still can't read it.

For me, of course. Not really a precedent for this, so I had to make do with improvisation from a lower dialect. Came out brilliantly, I might add.

Rose laughs, always so humble, the Doctor.

I'm sure it is. You gonna share with the class? Or is this Tuesday's solo performance all over again?

That was easily in Rose's top five Tuesdays of all time now.

ROSE! I told you I don't know how I ended up on that website!

So you're sticking with that story then. I'll give you credit for committing, at least.

His response is a photo of his face, his tongue sticking out.

Lovely. Now translate or I have work I could be doing.

Rose Tyler, are you neglecting your duties to the universe to send naughty texts to your boyfriend?

Another photo immediately follows, this one of his hand making a thumbs up.

She sends a picture of herself making a stern face back, feeling silly for the moment it takes to turn the phone around and take the photo.

She turns back to her computer, and manages to fill out a few lines, before he responds.

It'd be better if I could show you, but basically it indicates my desire to spend an extended period of time between your legs, with my mouth, and then it details the actions that take place in that location, during that time, with references to past occurrences.

Like last Saturday night?

Exactly like last Saturday night.

Rose tenses reflexively and bites her lip, typing her reply.

I could use my mouth, too. I like doing that.

A picture of a turkey sandwich fills her screen and she's left confused. Her desk phone rings.

"Sorry, that was meant for Thomas. He didn't want to come with us, so I was showing him what he was missing."

Rose tried to string together what that meant.

"Doctor, where are you right now?"

"I'm at lunch. Pete says hello and to call your mum, by the way."

In the background, she could hear Pete, "Tell her I mean tonight! Not in a week!"

"Oh my god, you were texting me all -- all THAT sitting next to my dad?"

Horrified doesn't even begin to cover it.

"'Course not. Pete's sitting across from me, one of us has to be able to see the door."

Rose hangs up on him.

&&.

There are several more false starts after that.

A conversation that starts with a picture of the run in her stocking, high on her thigh, actually gets her to locking her office door before the Doctor texts apologies, having forgotten an important meeting.

She has to stop him in the middle of a several-messages-long description of tying her to the headboard to deal with a group of dignitaries from Melmac.

A picture of his hand wrapped around a bottle of the new cinnamon Vitex had to go unanswered, knee-deep in slime as she was.

She's sitting on one end of the couch, as the Doctor returns from the kitchen and sits on the other, when they finally get it sorted.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she pulls it out to see a message from him.

Those jeans are so tight I can see the outline of your knickers.

She glances at him, but he seems absorbed in a commercial for Shirts, some new teen drama E4 is going to start up. She settles on playing along.

Couldn't be, I'm not wearing any.

The Doctor plucks his phone from where he'd set it on the arm the couch. His face remains slack as he reads the message and types out a reply.

One less thing for me to peel off of you then.

He replaces his phone and turns back to the television.

With barely a moment in between, she's responded.

Where will you start?

She holds her hand out in front of her, making a show of inspecting the way her nail polish is chipping.

Probably undo those little buttons on your shirt, they don't look like they go all the way down though, so I'd lift it up and pull it over your head.

Rose reads the message and sets the phone aside, beginning to unbutton her shirt. Her phone moves again.

Sexily.

She rolls her eyes at him and begins again, moving slower this time and catching him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

When she's done removing her shirt, she leans back into the couch in just her bra, grabbing her phone as she settles in.

I'd remove your shirt, too, and I'd scratch at your stomach through it a bit first.

The Doctor follows her instructions as soon as he reads them, scratching slow circles across his abdomen and chest before sliding his hands under his t-shirt and pulling it off. Then he's grabbing his phone and thumbing at it.

Got to get through that awkward shoes and socks part now.

Rose leans over to pull at her trainers and feels the couch shift as the Doctor does the same. Their shoes make twin thumps on the floor as they each toss them toward the hallway, followed by their socks.

Done, Rose types back.

I'd probably go for your breasts next, ring the nipple with my finger a few times before giving it a pinch.

Rose is still very clearly wearing a bra, but she gives him a pass, reaching around to unclasp it before removing it and acting out his words.

Then I'd lick it, comes the Doctor's next text.

Rose opens her mouth and moves a hand under her breast before rethinking it. She gives him an arched eyebrow instead.

He gives a little grin and types back.

Worth a shot.

She shakes her head.

My turn. I'd move for your belt and undo that and your trousers, making sure to brush against you as I go.

He follows along gamely, pressing down in a way Rose wouldn't have done, but is definitely going to start doing now.

Without prompting, he lifts his hips and slides his trousers down to the floor, kicking them away and leaving him straining against his boxer shorts when he settles back down.

He grabs his phone again and hastily types something, turning to stare heatedly right at Rose when he finishes.

Take off your jeans.

She was having him on about going knicker-less, so she hooks her thumbs in those and drags them down along with the denim.

It's not the sexiest she's ever felt, trying to arrange herself, starkers, on the couch, and she's trying to think of a way to reply when another message lights up the screen.

Turn off your phone.

She barely has a second to toss it aside before the Doctor is on her, pressing her back into the couch.

He's scrambling with one hand, trying to get his boxers down, while the other hand tangles in her hair. He uses it to angle her head back before bringing his lips to hers.

He gives up on his pants when he gets them to his knees and slides a finger of his freed hand inside of her as he slips his tongue into her mouth.

She wiggles a hand in between them, cupping him briefly before turning her hand to grip him properly.

He matches the rhythm of his fingers to the one she's stroking him with as he tears his mouth from hers. It's wet and teeth and tongues as he latches onto the join of her neck and shoulder and she bucks into his hand.

They've had sex in between all this -- would've been a long six months if they hadn't -- but somehow this feels like the culmination of the most drawn out foreplay she's ever experienced.

It's with that in mind that she pulls her hand from him, shoving his from him her in the process.

"Now, now, now," she's panting as he moves her roughly by her hips, trying to get the angles right.

He's finally there, hovering so close, and Rose tenses, waiting, when he finally slides in.
The groan he lets out echoes her own and he drops his forehead to hers, growling out, "Is this what you wanted?" before he begins to move.

She tries to tell him yes, definitely, oh god, yes, but it comes out as a breathy noise she can only hope sounded affirmative.

The couch is narrow and uncomfortable, but the short thrusts it's forcing the Doctor into are creating friction exactly where she needs it. He's got one hand braced on the cushion behind her and the other is skating across her body, pausing to pull at her breasts and clutch her hip. Her own hands are clutching him to her, one cupped around the back of his thigh, the other anchoring the push-pull of his thrusts, nails curled into the curve of his arse.

He leans down for a final messy kiss before burying his head in her neck, teeth marking the skin there as he comes with loud, hitched breaths. He manages a few more shallow thrusts, hand spanned wide and pressing across the slope of her stomach and she follows behind him, fuck and yes and oh on her tongue.

When they finally pick themselves up from the couch, she can barely muster the energy to use the loo before she's collapsing in bed and falling asleep, head pillowed on his shoulder and chest.

&&.

The next morning she's rushing out the door, trying to get to work, when the Doctor catches up to her and hands her her phone.

"It was still on the floor from last night."

She offers her thanks and dashes away.

She's only reached the driveway when she gets her first text.

&&.

and at once i knew i was not magnificent.

cereal — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 09:40:25 GMT

To make this weirdly specific in terms of timeframe, I'm updating right while Bon Iver is on Saturday Night Live. I never in real life talk about liking Bon Iver because I don't ever want to say Bon Iver out loud. Like, there is no way for me to not feel like an asshole doing that. Either you pronounce it correctly and you're asshole, or you pronounce it incorrectly and you're an asshole. You know what's easy to say? The Clash. I think this stems from working where I work and feeling plenty like a jerk butchering people's beautiful names. I am the worst.

Anyway, anytime I listen to Bon Iver, which is more than you would know if you asked me what I'm listening to and I always say The Clash, because sometimes it's Ben Folds' 'Gracie' a thousand times on repeat and that makes me seem I don't know what, but, man, can Ben Folds just write a song for my kid? Because that song is my favorite song about a kid, maybe.

But anyway. Bon Iver songs make me wish I lived better in the quieter moments of life, but it feels like I'm just a string of loud moments and my life is never going to be a Bon Iver song.

I don't even know where I was going with that? But sometimes I'm sitting at work and literally have no idea what sort of obnoxious things are coming out of my mouth in terms of non-work-related conversation and I'm like mid-sentence and I'm like, oh my god WHO ARE YOU. I run my mouth all the fucking time, for no reason. And you know who doesn't run her mouth for no reason? Emma, not now, nor forever ago.

Let's move on, because that was a shitshow of a series of paragraphs and I don't know how to make it stop, because I will just keep going and that is EXACTLY WHAT I'M RAILING AGAINST.

Here, instead, are a bunch of pictures. I can't even keep track of where I put these things anymore, so it's possible that you've seen them. My life is one big social media haze and I only get paid for that for eight of the hours in a day, so I'm not sure what that says about my life choices.

These are almost entirely from the Diptic app on my phone because it is my favorite app in the world, mostly because unlike Words with Friends, no one can beat me at it.

For Christmas I got Al an NPR shirt and every time he wears it (with a fucking cardigan, no less), I'm like, look at this dad in his NPR t-shirt and his cardigan and his reusable grocery bags, I'm going to punch him in the face and then make out with him. So it's good, I guess, that I want to do the same thing to Al that I want to do to David Tennant?

Flynn outgrew her TARDIS onesie, so it's on the sock monkey now. On Tumblr, I explained this is actually part of a game where we have to guess where the TARDIS landed her by face. Here she set out for a Run DMC concert, landed at the Reagan White House, Jurassic Park, the Yo Gabba Gabba set, and a room full of bottles. There are several more of these on my phone, I should've picked a new one.

This was for an awards reception thing during CES. My mom had bought me the dress for Christmas, so Al was trying to get a picture to text to her of me in it, and this is what he (and subsequently, my mom) ended up with. Two different dudes told me I really had the "geek chic" thing and I was so irrationally irritated by that that I wanted to take my glasses off for the rest of the night, even though then I'd be blind.

Telling this story now, it occurs to me that I have a spare set of contacts in my purse. Well done, Jamie. Another highlight of the night was being told Dewars was the only Scotch that was part of the open bar. Last year Macallan sponsored the event, so you can imagine how that went over with me. Or maybe you can't. It did not go over well, but I drank it anyway. Scotch, you guys.

Flynn is going to be five months old in a couple of days, but this is from her four month check up, where she had to get a bunch of shots and look at us like we betrayed her. The doctor, who was the one that was like, this is how to get the baby to sleep through the night right when you bring her home from the hospital, was then surprised she was sleeping through the night, still from bringing her home from the hospital. These leads me to believe that he was just saying nonsense words. Regardless, she sleeps 7 or 8 hours, in a row, every night and it is the one triumph of my parenting life, even though she probably just likes to sleep and it has nothing to do with me.

You would think this would be awesome, but I live in constant fear of this pattern breaking and then being totally unequipped for her to suddenly decide she wants to eat in the middle of the night. And people assume the sleeping through the night thing is the only reason you'd be tired if you have a baby. Like, oh, you've got a great sleeper, you should be fine! But really babies are just tiring in general because they can't be like, "I'm probably going to want to eat in about 15 minutes, could you maybe throw something together?" Instead it's like, a lot of sudden yelling.

We actually had our first meltdown in a restaurant the other day, and Al and I ate in shifts, taking turns taking her outside, and it was probably the worst lunch I have ever eaten. Like, objectively I understand that other people understand I am not harming my baby in any way and that I am dealing with it swiftly and within moments, getting her outside and away from ruining their dining experiences. But in my head it's like I am the worst person in the world and everyone is judging me and oh god, oh god.

These pajamas have dinosaur and rocket ship constellations and they glow in the dark. Shut the fuck up, Gap. It's too much. I'm jealous of a one piece sleeper for a baby.

Flynn sometimes tries to eat my phone. And everything else in the world.

I had a panic dream that I posted this on the work Twitter. If I explain it again, I'll get all anxious again.

Al tries again to get a nice picture of Flynn and I. It does not go so well, ever.

This was Thursday. Flynn loves to stand, and will cry often if made to be seated. So that's a thing that is interesting.

Ugh, sometimes my heart explodes.

And this is how I grocery shop now. I just take a picture of the pantry and the fridge and then I go to the store and I look at the picture and I decide if I'd rather eat something in the pictures or if I'd rather buy the frozen pizza staring at me from the case. It's almost always the frozen pizza because look at the pantry. Look at the fridge. This is the food supply of someone who travels a lot for work, but neither of us travel for work ever and in fact are home for dinner every night.

I'm not sure what to say about TV, except that sometimes lately it just feels like an obligation to watch all the shows i used to love. I literally just want to watch David Tennant's face over and over again, and I do, but it is not 2007, no one cares. I think I'll be pleased when Catherine Tate joins The Office, and I generally enjoy the TV shows once I sit down and watch them, but I don't know. I feel like I watch a lot of TV, but I don't have super raving things to say about any current show that isn't Shameless. So basically I don't even know myself anymore. Wait, also Scott Disick.

I don't know, mostly I run around screaming happily and impulse buying clothes for me or Al or Flynn and pizza and watching Flynn get bigger every day and everything is generally pretty great and that I'm complaining about not liking TV shows is probably a pretty good indication of just how little I have to actually complain about.

What else. I've been recruited in a couple of different directions recently, the furthest away being New York, which for some reason seemed like an absolute horrorshow to me, so much so that I can't even wrap my head around it. All of the sudden New York seemed like the worst idea in the world. I don't know what it is. This is such a weird field, I don't even.

I think we're going to get married soon, I wish there were just a form I could fill out on the internet to do this. I don't want a wedding. I don't want to plan a wedding. This is such a non-event for me, and it makes me feel like a jerk for thinking that way, like I'm being flip about something that still isn't an equal right, but it's not the marriage I'm being flip about, it's the fucking wedding.

YOU GUYS SOMETIMES I JUST STARE AT PICTURES OF MY KID FOR A LONG TIME

fic; Doctor Who: still like to go for a train ride ('cause i've got a thing about trains).

cereal — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 09:18:27 GMT

title: still like to go for a train ride ('cause i've got a thing about trains).
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: R?
words: 3,857.
notes: Written for Challenge 94 at then_theres_us, using the picture prompt below the cut. It's basically a fluffy excuse to have the Doctor and Rose make out on a train, I guess. Title from the Johnny Cash song.

It is absolutely nothing to do with the time vortex that Rose can see this particular bit of her future.

It is everything to do with how well she knows the Doctor.

And it's that knowledge (something the Doctor calls her "spidey senses" and she calls "a routine") that tells her this one thing:

They will not be making it to their vacation.

&&.

"Doctor," she's gesturing in front of his face with her hand, trying to get between him and the words he's spelling with the letters of his cereal.

He'd spelled out 'Judoon' and 'Sontaran' in the same bowl last week and had been so engrossed that she'd been able to tell him she was pregnant with Mickey's baby and he'd just said to let him know where they'd registered. It was only when she detailed how sperm in the parallel world allows fertilization through clothing and backward in time and that he's probably knocked up 10 different women since he's been here, that it had clicked. But only because he was worried about child support.

This time he doesn't appear to be having such great luck, as he looks up at Rose without even lining up the letters for 'Clom' that are all floating within an inch of each other.

('Clom' is what the Doctor would call a gimme. Probably in every other bowl, even. The holy grail of cereal words -- Raxacoricofallapatorius -- has eluded him thus far, which is just as well, because Rose has promised him a shag on the Manchester United pitch if he pulls it off.

It's this promise that had finally convinced the Doctor to get a mobile -- the camera on it could be used for documentation if it happens when Rose is out, something the Doctor was initially frantic enough about to only eat cereal when Rose was home.)

"I checked my e-mail this morning," Rose says as she leans over to fish out a 'P' from his breakfast and pop it in her mouth. It's pretty soggy already, which means he's been at it for too long. It's not unusual for the Doctor to take a bowl of what's become lukewarm mush for his first meal of the day.

"Hey! I was going to use that for 'Adipose!' And you know you weren't supposed to check your e-mail. You're on vacation, Rose Tyler. As of about, oh, 16 hours ago -- I won't bore you with the specifics, but I know that you know that I know them. And that's what matters."

The Doctor's look is already practically gleeful, and Rose wishes she could just let this go. He'd be happy on vacation, thrilled, even, but this case is going to put him over the moon.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but I'd had Geoffrey book our travel, so the itinerary was in my Torchwood e-mail and, listen, do you want to hear this or not? I get enough about how I'm working too much from everyone else."

He makes an elaborate sweeping gesture with his arm, giving her the floor, "Do go on."

"Ta. There's been a series of power surges just outside Dublin."

"Rose, I can't have us rushing in every time something strange happens in Ireland. That's as frequent as, well, as something strange happening in Ireland, I suppose."

She is not going to be sidetracked by the Doctor's increasingly frequent commentaries about weird old Ireland. That's the last time Torchwood doesn't vet a colleague the Doctor is supposed to share an office with, even temporarily.

"Yeah, yeah, I understand, crazy things afoot in Ireland. But, Doctor, these surges are like nothing we've ever seen before. They appear to be affected by the weather."

"Lightning strikes, Rose. Honestly, it's almost like you're looking for a reason not to take this vacation," he paused, but not long enough for Rose to jump in.

"Is this about me in swimming trunks? Because I told you, I haven't waxed my chest since that one time and it's all grown back. Lulu told me you would like it! She's an aesthetician, that's her job to know! Not my fault you don't appreciate a thoughtful gesture when someone makes one. You lay your head right there! Wouldn't you rather it smooth? If your wonderful breasts were covered in hair, I daresay I wouldn't like them quite so much."

Rose raised an eyebrow the little amount she was able to. Not that she'd been practicing in the mirror or anything.

"All right, I would still adore your breasts. Can we leave for vacation now? I've packed and everything."

"Sure, we can leave, and good job you getting that packing done. Let me just say this last thing and then you can decide."

The Doctor picked up his cereal bowl and tipped it to his mouth, finishing it in one gulp, before pulling back to wipe his mouth with his hand.

"Shoot."

"These power surges, they're happening on what might, by some people, perhaps be called a locomotive-type vehicle."

"A train, Rose? A train! A train caper! This is brilliant!"

&&.

It was on the 31st day back from Norway that the Doctor had declared under no circumstances would he be working for Torchwood.

And it was on the 51st day that Rose received a case he huffed and rolled his eyes about so much, proclaiming it "obvious" and "amateur" that Rose had told him to stuff it unless he wanted to help.

This is how the Doctor became a Torchwood "consultant," only on an as-needed basic, which is basically, "only when the Doctor feels like it."

(The day Pete sat him down and made him fill out tax paperwork and insurance waivers, he swore up and down he was done. But he was back four days later, sheepish and pen in hand, dying to help Rose with a ship that had crashed outside Leeds.)

Still, the Doctor refuses to adhere to at least 75 percent of the Torchwood Guidebook for Field Agents, which is why they're always assuming such elaborate undercover disguises.

He's rifling through the wardrobe, chucking things over his shoulder as he goes, while Rose tries to stay out of the flight path.

"Let me just find one last thing," and with a grunt he yanks out a pair of boots. "My wellies!"

Rose sits on the edge of the bed and watches him shove everything he's unearthed into a pile. If that's how he'd packed for vacation, it was just as well they weren't going.

"Who are we this time, Doctor?" These get-ups weren't initially Rose's favorite, but she'd come to learn that without time and space and the TARDIS to roll the dice, the Doctor was at a bit of loss when it came to the more random aspects of his life. Plus, it made him really, really happy.

"We are -- pause for effect --"

"You know it negates the effect when you say --"

"Pause over. We are bird watchers!" He pulled a pair of binoculars from the pile with a flourish. "I'm Doctor Samuel Gladstone, that's doctor of ornithology, and you are my ever-so-eager graduate student, Michelle Hasselboch. Wow, that is awfully fun to say! Hasselboch." He appeared to be letting the word slide around like a mouthful of juice.

Rose squinted at the binoculars and then at the Doctor, ready for their usual negotiations.

"Done, except I'm Doctor Samantha Gladstone and you're my eager grad student Michael."

"But, Rose! You look so much younger, no one is going to believe that!"

"I'm a girl genius," she stopped, daring him to contradict her. "And besides, think of all the introducing yourself you'll get to do. You'll get to say your last name at least five times."

"Make it ten and we're done."

"Ten it is."

&&.

It was a quicker-than-usual zeppelin flight to get out to Dublin, where they'd board the train with all the power surges, seemingly on their way to a bird-watching expedition.

Rose isn't exactly sure on how a doctor of ornithology dresses, so she'd just outfitted herself for the field -- olive green trousers, a belt, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. She'd picked a striped shirt, worn oxfords instead of field boots, and thrown a black cardigan over the whole thing. Those concessions would have to be professorial enough, because she wasn't changing and she certainly wasn't wearing tweed.

The Doctor, on the other hand, is parading around the train station in his black wellies, a pair of trousers that are khaki-colored, but fit and look like jeans, and a black sweater over a plaid button-down. It's very Scottish highlands, but the way he runs to stomp in every puddle sort of negates any effect that isn't "small child."

By the time the train arrives and they're tucked up in their car, the Doctor has used up seven of his ten introductions, doing them like James Bond every time, so he gets to say the last name twice. A loophole Rose should have known to close.

The journey isn't meant to be very long and they won't need sleeping quarters, so they're sharing the car with six other people, seating in four rows of two down either side.

The train is mostly a regional thing with -- hopefully, at least -- the same people riding semi-frequently.

The plan, as it is just about half the time with them, is to gather enough information for the Doctor to figure out the problem.

(The other half of the time, when matters shape up to be slightly more terrestrial, Rose handles the figuring out.)

Then they're off to deal with it, together.

The Doctor starts with the row just across the aisle, introducing himself and Rose and trying for conversation.

The couple in the seats across from them end up being avid birdwatchers themselves and it's only be the skin of the Doctor's maddeningly perfect teeth that they bluff their way through it.

Rose gives the Doctor a very teacher-y congratulations on remembering all those different species, taking special time to mention that it'll be taken into account come time for grades.

The Doctor harrumphs and moves on to the seats in front of them just as the train begins to move.

Rose steals away to find snacks and it's only been about ten minutes when she comes back to the Doctor holding court with the entire car, laying it on awfully thick about a rare type of bird where the newly hatched babies become confused and try to take ownership of the nest from the mothers.

Rose opens her bottle of water and pours some of it right down the opening of his boot.

Just as the Doctor finishes ringing his sock out and stuffing his foot back into the shoe, the lights on the train flicker, burning bright enough to pop a few of the bulbs.

"That's not normal, is it? Michael?" Rose speaks loud enough that anyone around them could hear.

A man diagonal from the Doctor takes the bait.

"Aye, on this train it is. Something to do with the engine power, I'd say. Or that's what they've told us the last six times."

They stay just long enough for the man to explain that a conductor often comes on to make an announcement before they're off to find him.

&&.

The him turns out to be a her. A pretty woman with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail who shouts at them to back away until she finally realizes they're not giving up, and she opens the window to speak to them.

She tells them the lead mechanic on this train has looked at it and can't figure out. She casually mentions that he might even be in danger of getting sacked, but it's the strange look in her eyes that makes the Doctor nudge Rose.

&&.

They're halfway to their destination, two more power surges under their belts, when they wind up in the dining car, which really is only light snacks on a journey this short.

The Doctor has wrangled them two seats near the bar and they're recounting their efforts, seeing little need to disguise the conversation with the car being so noisy and only the bartender nearby.

It turns out to be a bit of dumb luck then, that bartender overhears them talking about the upcoming unemployment of the mechanic and jumps right in.

"Finally gonna cut Timothy loose? Is that what Kelly said?" The bloke, whose name tag reads 'George,' is practically vibrating with joy.

"Not a fan of good old Timmy then, eh?" The Doctor casts a quick side glance to Rose, who shrugs in return. Could be just gossip (which has its place, she's not too proud to say) or could be a lead.

"No, he's a right bastard and he doesn't deserve her. For a while I thought he'd skip town on his own, but he's still hanging on like -- like what's a sort of bug that really hangs on?"

"Leech?" Rose offers.

"Yeah, like a leech," he sneers.

George's face is now a mixture of sadness and anger -- a look Rose knows well -- as he wanders off to make drinks for a group of businessmen down the bar.

"Awfully chatty, wouldn't you say?" Rose is trying to be nonchalant, but she can tell from the rhythm the Doctor is tapping out anxiously with his foot that he's got a hunch.

"Oh, you know bartenders, part of their job, listening and talking. Makes people more likely to buy their wares."

A smile unfolds on the Doctor's face as Rose picks out and eats a peanut from the dish of nuts on the bar.

"Of course, in this case, it might just be a guilty conscience. Or a pleased one, as it were."

The Doctor reaches into the dish for a cashew and picks out a few extra peanuts for Rose, dropping them on the bar in front of her.

"You think he did something?"

"I do."

"Well, let's go then!"

"I don't know, Rose. An engine room? Certainly not a place passengers are normally allowed."

"Good thing we're not normal then, eh?"

The Doctor grabs a handful of nuts and they're back on the move.

&&.

The Doctor is waving his sonic about the engine room, the hum of it not even audible over the noise. He's using a setting whose function is, "really best described with a series of clicks from the Zunumian language, Rose, so it's easier if you just trust me on this or we could be here a while" to detect energy.

He's pulling open a door he really probably shouldn't be opening before Rose can stop him. He pulls the cuff of his jumper down over his hand to reach inside and grab something and Rose almost screams before she remembers last week and his excitement over replicating an 81st century fabric treatment that renders garments virtually indestructible.

It's a happy coincidence because Rose is sure that even without the treatment, the Doctor would've been sticking his hand in there.

He pulls back and opens his palm to reveal a small glowing object that looks exactly like, well, like a glow stick.

"Doctor, what is that? Why hasn't it melted?"

"This, Professor Rose, is a little party trick from the planet Rave 22. There it gives off just enough energy to glow during the nights of their celebrations. Here, it responds to the absence of sunlight -- something sporadic, but plentiful on these gloomy days. And the energy conversion is, well, you saw what it did to the lights."

"So how did it get here? I mean, obviously George, right? But where would he have gotten it?"

"Either our new friend George is party planet tourist or, more likely, someone brought it to Burning Man and it made its way here. He probably noticed the way it affected the lights in his flat and then, 'Let's get Tim-Tim-Timmy sacked.'"

"That's quite a gamble, could've killed everyone."

"Could've done. Didn't though. Now let's go confront him."

&&.

It's an awkward and messy scene. George and Timothy clustered up front by the window where Kelly sits, lots of tears and yelling.

It turns out though, that it's not George or Timothy for her, it's Milo, the station agent back in Dublin.

Everyone is so embarrassed by the time the whole thing's over that they offer the Doctor and Rose a ride back, free of charge. They even get the whole last car to themselves, after the Doctor asks after it.

&&.

"The caboose, Rose!" The Doctor says, throwing his arms open wide as they enter the car.

Rose turns around, trying to get a look at her bum, "What?"

"That's what it's called in America, the last car. Well, sort of, only mainly on freight trains and it serves an entirely different purpose, but well, fun to say and didn't you ever wonder where that expression came from?"

"No, not really," Rose shrugs and stretches out into a seat. "Think we can still make our flight out for vacation?"

The Doctor squints, before giving up and checking his watch, "Might do. What do you say we kick it off right now?"

He practically saunters to the seat Rose is occupying, and pulls a knee up to rest near her hip on the bench before leaning down and tweaking her nose.

Ever so romantic, this Doctor.

Rose gives him a tweak back, right on his hip, "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," he draws the word out a few extra syllables. "Something else I've always wanted to do on a train, in addition to solving a caper."

"Yeah?"

"Did you ever see the movie 'Risky Business,' Rose?"

"I have, and would you believe they've got him in boxer shorts in this universe? Just slides right in wearing plaid pants, hardly the same effect, let me tell you."

The Doctor shifts his knee so he's half-straddling Rose, one leg still on the ground.

"Not quite the scene I had in mind."

"What? What other scene is there -- oh. Oh. Here? Really?" She's trying to protest, but her hand has already come up to scratch at his thigh.

"Anywhere else would be off a train, wouldn't it? It'd defeat the purpose." He drops his hips to hers and rocks upward. The angle's not the best, but Rose gets the point.

"Fine, but if we get caught, you're making the statement to the press this time. They're only going to believe that we contaminated our clothes with dangerous chemicals so many times."

"Don't you worry, Rose Tyler, I've got it all figured out. Alien mind control."

Rose moves her hand to grasp him through his trousers, "I'd say it's not the alien's mind that's in control here."

"That was reaching, but I'll allow it -- if you switch me with me," and the Doctor's sliding in to the seat next to her, before tugging her over to straddle him.

When she finally settles in his lap, the Doctor leans in to nip at her neck, running his tongue over the spot before pulling back.

Rose rocks into him and tilts her head back, encouraging him to do it again.

He moves a hand to the area instead, curling his fingers around and into the hair at the back of her neck and using it to bring her mouth down to his.

The way his tongue slides confidently into her mouth, so little preamble or pause, never fails to create a flush in Rose that she feels all the way down to her fingertips.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat and imagines watching it flow from her mouth and into his. The way he curls his tongue just then makes it like he's bringing it in, swallowing it down. She wants one to keep for her own, so she knits her fingers into his hair and gives a little tug. He lets out a small groan, pulling back from her mouth and arching up into her.

He nuzzles his face into her chest, pausing for a moment to feel her heartbeat against his cheek, before trying to pull down the collar of her shirt low enough to get to a breast.

"Gonna have to be from the bottom, I don't fancy you turning this boatneck into a yacht." It's one of her favorite things in the world, trying to keep coherent as long as she can, little jokes and asides, while the Doctor, usually so ready with a whole dictionary, turns to nonsense.

"Not a boat, a train," and he rucks her shirt up from the bottom, tucking it safely under her armpits before pulling down on her bra enough to release her breasts.

He rubs his nose in the cleft between them, before turning his head side to side to kiss at each one.

"Something to be said for a motorboat though," he mumbles into her chest and Rose can feel the slide of his smile against her skin.

Rose braces her hands on the edge of the chair behind the Doctor's head and anchors herself down into his lap, circling her hips to create some friction.

"Maybe let's hurry this up, yeah? Take your time later, on vacation."

The Doctor's hands move from where they'd been bracketing her hips down to her belt. He undoes it, and follows with the button and zip of her trousers.

Rose snakes a hand between them and does the same to his trousers, watching him struggle to keep his eyes open and not buck into her hands. She gives him a single squeeze before squirming back and off his lap to stand.

Toeing her shoes off, she shimmies her trousers and pants to the floor, only slightly aware of the Doctor raising his hips enough to shuck his clothing to his knees.

When she crawls back onto him, she's still wearing her socks, but if the way the Doctor is pawing at her, trying to line everything up, is any indication, she could literally be wearing a sheet with strategically cut holes and he'd be fine.

She reaches down to help guide him into her as he crushes her mouth back to his, biting at her lip before slipping his tongue into her mouth once more.

It's going to have to be short, fast strokes with the lack of space for her legs, but the pressure she's creating for herself by leaning into him means it isn't going to be a problem.

He's muttering into her ear, yeah and fuck and oh god and come, and she gives herself just enough room to scrape her nails down his chest before rocking into him a final time and going stiff above him. He grabs her by the bum, pulling her tight and roughly against him, a string of vowels on his lips as he comes.

&&.

Two weeks later they're over at the Tyler mansion and Jackie's struggling to get Tony to eat his peas.

"Oh, look, it's a train, here comes the train, choo-choo -- Rose, honey, why are you laughing?"

&&.

fic; Doctor Who: Start as You Mean to Go On.

cereal — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 11:13:56 GMT

title: Start as You Mean to Go On.
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: 10.5/Rose.
rating: R?
words: 7,142.
notes: This has been stalled on my hard drive for an embarrassing amount of time, considering it's for worldwouldend and her help_japan winning bid. A half ficlet thing I wrote with a Tumblr picture reblog kicked me back into action, so if you've already seen that over there, sorry, it's very tiny and just folded in near the end here. For what it's worth, and to give credit, I also incorporated a picture/prompt/comment/thing from mylittlepwny on an older story (which is David/Billie RPF, so look out), because my brain doesn't always correctly process photos of them as separate from photos of 10.5 and Rose. The angst only really lasts about the first third, because, cards on the table, I'm a sap.

The best kinds of games, of course, are the ones where there are no losers.

Family Monopoly night, where even if you bankrupt early, staking it all on every property you land on, you're better for having played, for the light sound of your mother's laughter, and the way your dad uses too much butter on the popcorn.

Chess. The hours you spend thinking about moves and planning and sacrifices, and not about heartache or gaining a stone or work on Monday, better still, even if your king falls in the end.

Sex. Come first, come last, come more than once, everyone's a winner.

And love. The worst of all the games, because you lose so much, you often don't realize when you've triumphed.

&&.

There's a zeppelin flight home.

Well, not home so much, as the place Jackie and Pete and Tony and a staff call home, and the place Rose keeps her stuff. Home is a spaceship, lost in time, across a void, with an address that doesn't accept posted letters.

The Doctor is tucked up in a spare room, and there's a moment, as they're coming up the stairs, where Rose can't decide which room to put him in. It's like a table at a restaurant -- sit across from your companion, so you can look at him as he picks the lettuce off his sandwich, as he holds the straw back from the rim of his cup instead of removing it as he takes a drink.

Or sit next to him, unable to see his face without effort, but instead able to feel the warm press of his leg against yours, his arm brushing by as he reaches for the salt.

Rose settles on next door, because as a hologram, on a cold, windy beach, taught her, seeing something, without touching, isn't all it's cracked up to be.

&&.

Rose leaves him a stack of towels, a pair of pajamas, tags still on, and the ghost of a sad smile.

He wants to tell her about the ways different races clean themselves. He feels the words pressing against his tongue, itching to get out. Races who only bathe in falling rainwater, and how awful-smelling their planets becomes during droughts. Races that don't bathe, not really, but who have a sort of laser that eradicates germs. Races that reserve showers as a mating grounds, creating new life under the spray of orange-scented water.

He wants to tell her anything, really, but it's not time yet. They can't just slip back into their life together and pretend he doesn't have one heart, that there's not two of him, that one didn't leave.

No matter how much that's exactly what he wants.

So he takes the towels, and walks to the shower, and when the smell of her bath gel surrounds him as he lathers up, he only takes himself in hand for a moment, caught in a cloud of Rose, before he stops and sets to figuring out just how much control over this body he has.

It's very little, apparently.

&&.

She wants to send him a text message. It's become so easy, here in this stupid parallel world, to just get by on letters on the screen of her decidedly less-super mobile.

(The super one tucked away in the back of a drawer for emergencies -- like when she worries it was all a dream -- next to a drying pack of cigarettes, a couple of painkillers, and a bag of banana taffy.)

It's so easy to avoid things that way.

Texting her mum that she wasn't going to be home for dinner, again, and ignoring the subsequent phone call.

Typing out to Jake that her date was fine, ta, but she'd left early and wouldn't be seeing him again.

Sending Pete a quick note that she'd borrowed something from the Torchwood archives and she'd have it back before anyone notices, promise.

But the Doctor, this Doctor, doesn't have a phone yet, souped up or no, and instead she has a piece of paper and the way her hand shakes around the pen.

She stares at the page and mindlessly draws a tree. Then a cow. She intricately colors in the the spots on the animal, doodling loops and swirls for several long minutes.

Finally she writes, "Tomorrow?" and slips it under his door.

A few minutes later, long enough for her to get dressed in her pajamas and turn some sitcom on, the paper is slid back under her door.

He's drawn a spaceship above the cow, little beams of light seemingly pulling it up, and above her word, he's written something and scratched out the curve of the question mark, so that now it reads, "All the tomorrows."

She tucks the note in the back of her drawers and goes to bed.

&&.

The idea that he needs to seek out sleep, and that it's not just something that happens to him, occasionally and usually on a couch in the study, is absurd.

He's not even sure how to go about it, other than dressing in the clothes Rose had given him and lying in the bed that is not his own and that he'd never like to be his own, much preferring to lend his name, in partnership with Rose, to the bed in her room, thanks.

But he tries, because tomorrow (and every tomorrow after that, like he'd written, like he knows), Rose or Jackie or even possibly Tony is going to ask how his night was and he doesn't want to have to say, "I spent it staring at the ceiling, trying to bend time."

After several hours of doing just that, right as the sun is rising, he rifles through the desk in his room and finds a small black notebook. On the second page, because you always leave room to rewrite the beginning of a story, he prints:

Rule Book for Being Human

Number one on the list, sleep.

&&.

Rose wakes to the sound of noise from the Doctor's room. The desk drawers opening and closing, followed by silence.

She feels better, slightly less muddled and more alert than she has in months, years, perhaps. It's such a foreign feeling, this near-contentedness, that she tries to bring the old emotions back. She thinks about one Doctor abandoning her, another Doctor who will die, and a universe lost to her, but it's no use.

It's 13 hours since the TARDIS dematerialized, and she brushes her teeth, willing herself to feel like a traitor.

She showers and tells herself she's a horrible person.

She dresses, a striped shirt (horizontal, not vertical, never vertical, never pinstripes) and pants too tight for anyone (the Doctor) to get off without considerable effort. She thinks, "These are the clothes of the worst type of human."

But it doesn't take, any of it.

Her body is trying to be happy, and she's at a loss to stop it.

&&.

The kitchen is empty when the Doctor arrives, redressed in his suit, and teeth minty clean. He thinks briefly that he's woken up before everyone else, but there's a note on the counter from Jackie:

Tony's at school, Pete's at work, I'm at the shops, Rose has money.

She's signed it with an 'X' and he tries to remember if that's the hug or the kiss. He's struck with the thought that both are less unappetizing than he'd have imagined, if only because it appears at least one Tyler isn't repulsed by him.

Rose has snuck into the kitchen while he's read the note over and over again, and he's startled to see her finger appear on the page, pointing to the mark.

"All her friends do that now, it's 'kisses' when they leave each other, high society posturing, my mum, would you believe?"

He's so taken aback by the fact that she's spoken to him at all that he takes a moment to respond, "Oh, I don't know, Jackie Tyler, high society, high maintenance, it's all the same, isn't it?"

She slides on to the stool next to him and laughs, "Suppose so."

They sit in silence for a moment and the Doctor wants to rush to fill it, but he still hasn't looked at her, and he decides that's more important than whatever tangent he'd come up with. And anyway, isn't that part of being human, learning to live in the quiet times, too? He'll add it the book later.

She's wearing a black and white top, the neck cut just low enough that he can see her the top of her collarbone, and the bruises on her collarbone.

Why are there bruises on her collarbone?

Rose catches him looking and when his hand rises as if to trace the ugly, purple spots, she speaks.

"It's okay. They're good marks."

He squints then, just able to make the bruises into fingertips, and he thinks -- oh.

"Caught up in the moment then?"

She rears back, the stool tottering on the rear legs and he reaches out to steady her, his fingers wrapped tight enough around her arm to leave new marks, and he's perversely pleased by the thought. Whoever left the ones on her chest will have him to contend with now. He decides right then that he's not giving up without trying. He's brilliant at trying.

"What?" She sputters out. "They're not -- I've not. They're from the dimension cannon, one too many rough landings."

He unwraps his hand from her arm and feels something like relief behind his ribs.

"Good how then?"

"Good because they were bringing me closer to you."

His cheeks go warm. He wasn't anticipating such -- maturity? Frankness? Relative ease? -- and so he picks at it, the adrenaline in his veins still spoiling for an outlet.

"So you've not, uh," he scratches at the back of his neck, and makes a note of how soft the hair is there, Rose's shampoo must be expensive. "With anyone?"

Her eyes drop to the counter, back to Jackie's note, and he deflates.

"There was one bloke, it was a mistake. I left right after and cried the whole drive home."

His stomach roils like he's going to throw up, and how novel that will be, throwing up when he's not even fed this body anything. This was not the first conversation they were meant to have. This was, perhaps, not a conversation they were ever meant to have, if the look in Rose's eyes is anything to go by.

"I'm sorry."

"Well, you weren't there, nothing to apologize for." She sniffs, clearing her face, "Besides, he was good-looking enough," and she ends with the ghost of a smirk.

He sees it there, the opportunity Rose is giving them, to rest for a little while before talking about what they need to talk about. He takes it.

"Yeah? Better looking than this?" And he sits up straight on his stool, plucking at the lapels of his jacket. "Bet he didn't even have sideburns. Or a mole."

Her posture relaxes, seemingly grateful, "No, no he didn't."

&&.

From there, it's easier.

When she was little, Mickey used to have Rose press the 'reset' button on the Nintendo. The only job her chubby little fingers could accomplish, really, but it was also the only one Mickey would allow.

And anyway, Rose took to it, took to the way it would erase all the times Mickey jumped off a cliff trying to save the princess, or the way a fireball spelled the end for the hero. It was like a fresh start, a new game, and there's power in that, even to a kid.

It's just as well then, that the Doctor throws out his new human rule book the first time he realizes the absurdity of writing down the correlation between liquid consumed and need for the loo.

&&.

There's shopping.

Shopping for clothes, the result a closet full of suits and jumpers and jeans, boxers shorts and undershirts. And though it's in the spare bedroom, where the Doctor sleeps, Rose imagines what their clothes would look like together. She imagines the way the scent from his wardrobe would mingle with hers and how she'd be able to smell him on her collar during long meetings.

(Here in this parallel world his scent is a faint, spicy cologne that makes him smell exactly as she remembers. When he admits he's never worn cologne before now, that he's always simply smelled, perhaps, of time and TARDIS grease and the Time Lord absence of sweat, she's confused and intrigued. Then he's onto words like, "olfactory projection" and she returns that she could have done with some of that the time they landed right in the garbage piles on Tralgun 8.)

There's shopping for food, and the introduction of a new game -- one that makes light of a situation they still dance around, all inching toward each other on the couch, but stopping before it gets too close.

"We could get pizza, if you want."

"What about a new flavor of toothpaste? If you want."

"Let's check our blood pressure at this convenient machine, if you want."

He forms the words the same way every time, and she tries to mimic him, their hearts tripping faster and faster with so much wanting.

She dreams that night of a pixelated version of herself, opening TARDIS after TARDIS, a scrolling message around the console:

Thank you, Rose Tyler! But your Time Lord is in another castle.

It's just coherent enough to assign a meaning to, and it leaves her feeling both acceptance and betrayal.

(He dreams that night of a chess game where both players lay down their kings at the same time.)

&&.

The conversation, when they have it, goes like this:

"You're the Doctor," she asserts.

"I am," he confirms.

&&.

The official debut of the Doctor, on the arm of Vitex Heiress Rose Tyler is at a music festival.

Technically, a man with a name that only exists on paper makes that debut, but it's a piece of paper Rose is certain he hasn't even looked at.

It's a bit like when he wouldn't find out what the psychic paper had conjured up until hours later, when "Dr. Tobias Mendenhall" was being read his rights in a Urpollian prison. Only instead he's going to find out his own name in tomorrow's newspaper.

When the tickets had been delivered, forwarded on from Mickey's address, Rose had stashed them in a junk drawer before the Doctor could see. It was supposed to be a last hurrah before another round of Dimension Cannon testing.

Two days before the concert, Rose decides it will be a first hurrah, if that's a thing.

&&.

(Please, I love the suits, you know I do, but it will be so hot, unbearably hot, and they'll think you're my bodyguard and your bum, I mean, the jeans, I mean, tight, wait -- ugh.)

Mickey had spared no expense on the tickets, but it wouldn't have mattered, because they're ushered onto a VIP lawn immediately upon entering.

Rose sticks her wrist out, prepared for wristbands and a plea for a photo in front of the step and repeat, as the Doctor considers color choices.

"Red and blue? Could I see something in a fluorescent? I don't know if you've noticed, but I've gotten a bit of a tan in my short time here on this fine planet, and I think a nice neon yellow would really make that pop."

The poor woman handling their check-in looks pleadingly at Rose as the Doctor continues on, imploring the woman to be gentle and not catch any of his manly arm hairs in her depressingly colored bracelets.

Rose takes the bands from the woman with a polite smile and a promise to make sure he wears them properly, ushering him away from the crowd.

"Doctor, you can't say things like 'this planet' right out of the gate. The media is going to think you're a nutter."

"Why not? I called it 'fine,' didn't I? I should think they'd recognize a compliment when they hear one."

"It's -- oh, forget it. Here, give me your arm."

The Doctor thrusts his arm at her with a quick smile, "I've just come around on the blue. Matches my shirt, don't you think? And my old eyes, remember those eyes? Could wear this right around my head and really make them stand out. But then I'd look like a -- what did you call it? A nutter."

He's all manic energy, apparently thriving on the fresh air after a week of being cooped up in the house, a week of steadfastly ignoring anything that's ever happened on a beach in Norway or a police box in another universe.

When she grabs his hand to put the wristbands on, it all crashes back. There's a long moment of cataloging the sweat on his palm, the twitch of his fingers, the play of the wind across that beloved arm hair. She's just about to speak, to say sod the concert, let's shag or fight or run instead, when the festival worker walks back up.

"So sorry, Miss Tyler, I forgot your --" she pushes the lanyards at them, flinching as the Doctor rips his hand from Rose's to grab them.

"Oh! Necklaces, too! Love a good accessory. Even better when they're edible. But these aren't edible, are they? No, no, humans don't really embrace edible clothing until at least the 30th century."

He's talking mostly to himself and Rose offers the worker another apologetic look before looping the lanyard around the Doctor's neck and tugging him away.

&&.

The band Rose really wants to see, a modern punk thing, but with horns, too, is a headliner and won't come on until at least sunset. They sit down on the fenced off lawn and Rose recognizes the daughter of a zeppelin magnate near the catering.

She pulls the Doctor's attention away from the handful of grass he's cataloguing, "That's Ella Price, her dad owns more than a third of the zeppelins here."

The Doctor squints, the action apparent even behind his sunglasses, and then raises the fist clutching the grass in a half-wave.

"Doctor! What are you doing?"

He startles and drops the handful of grass above his head, tumbling it into his hair, "I'm waving hello to your friend, Rose." His tone indicates that this should have been obvious and she ought to keep up.

"She's not exactly my friend."

"Oh, an enemy then? No one wrongs Rose Tyler on my watch, I'll give her a talk." He nods like it's settled.

"Not an enemy, Doctor, just we barely know each other. There's no monthly heiress tea or anything."

It's at this point that Ella walks up, cocking her head at the Doctor, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

Rose practically hears the breath he draws to begin a ramble, and she steps in, "Ella, this is the Doctor. Doctor, this is Ella. How nice to see you again!"

It turns out that Ella is there to watch the same band Rose is looking forward to, and is a lot nicer than anyone else Rose has met that would be at an heiress tea party. When Ella offers to grab them a snack and beer, Rose gladly accepts.

"What do you think?" The Doctor says after Ella leaves. "Not so bad, eh? And all from a little friendly wave!" He seems awfully proud of himself.

"Yeah, she's great. It's nice to talk to someone I know won't blab to the papers. Probably because she'd expect we'd blab right back."

The Doctor considers this for a moment, like he's trying to imagine what possible news story could come out of the conversations they just had.

"She keeps looking back over here, you know," he says. "She might try to give you some competition for my affections, Rose Tyler."

Rose grins, pleased to be able to have one over on him, "I think you'll find, Doctor, that if Ella's after anyone's affections here, it is Rose Tyler's."

"Oh?" He's sizing Ella up now, having lifted his sunglasses to peer into the distance where Ella stands in line.

"Yeah, it was quite a scandal when she came out. Not because of this world's prejudices -- if anything, they're a sight more tolerant than back home -- but because she was caught with her hands up the skirt of one of her tutors, in a library, no less."

"Amateur stuff, that. A simple cloaking device and you can copulate anywhere you want. Remind me, I'll show you."

Rose is just dissecting the offhanded way he said that, and the possible implications, when Ella rejoins them, passing out their beer.

They sit and listen to almost a full set from a band out of Glasgow that's really heavy on the piano, before Ella offers Rose a cigarette. Without a thought to the Doctor, she accepts and leans into Ella as she clicks the lighter.

The Doctor lets her get through a single, long drag before, "Rose Tyler, are you smoking? In this century? You know well enough the dangers and they don't sort those out properly for at least another 85 years."

Ella has leaned back to be able to look at both of them as Rose chokes and blusters for a response. She's stuck trying to decide whether to deal with the Doctor's admonishment or deflect away from what he's said for the sake of their guest.

"Yeah, well, this one isn't going to kill me."

"If you try pulling this on Holland Prime, they just might! It's a capital offense!" He's going for stern, but his eyes are fairly twinkling at her.

Ella jumps in, "Actually, Doctor, I've been to Holland. They smoke like chimneys over there."

The Doctor sits up straight, the way a dog does at the mention of a walk, and Rose has to cut him off.

"Yeah, Holland Prime is -- it's a nightclub, where he comes from. Very, very strict."

It looks as if the Doctor is going to give up and try talking about something else when he leans into Rose, voice pitched low and only just discernible over the din of the music, "You know what they say about kissing someone who's been smoking," and he sniffs.

Rose fumbles to stub her cigarette out and gives him a look like a challenge. She wants him to accept, wants him to pull her down in the stupid dry grass that doesn't smell like apples and finish what they started on the beach. Hell, finish what they started in a department store a universe away.

But he doesn't.

His face is apologetic and a promise and Rose decides to get him out of that spare room tonight.

(When the band finally takes the stage, they're all wearing suits.)

&&.

As it turns out, getting him out of the spare room happens by necessity. The maid -- a new one that began just as the stars started going out -- wasn't informed the Doctor would be staying indefinitely. She'd stripped his bed to wash the linens.

There are definitely spare sheets somewhere in the house, and Rose makes a token effort to look for them, but a day of music and drinking in the sun has made her just tired enough that she can't be fussed over what it means when she doesn't find them. (And doesn't entertain the thought of picking another spare room instead.)

"You can just sleep with me," she pauses for emphasis. "If you want."

He grins brightly at her, but without the slightest hint of the lasciviousness she's desperately hoping for.

"Don't know how much sleeping I'll be doing," and he winks.

Rose feels her jaw pop, her mouth falls open so fast. The Doctor seems to realize, too, and fumbles to recover.

"Because you snore, I mean. Used to tell my ship all the time! TARDIS, I'd say, can't you see to soundproofing Rose's room? There's only so much snoring a Time Lord can take when doing very impressive repairs on his very impressive time machine, while his very impressive human companion rests her very impressive brain."

He's spoiling for a good, distracting ramble, but Rose is too exhausted to indulge him, "It would be very impressive if you could get ready for bed."

"'Course I can get ready for bed, hardly any effort at all, that. It's just a matter of -- oh. All right then."

It's only 10 minutes later that they're folding themselves into bed.

"Do you want --" The Doctor aborts the sentence, huffing out a breath instead.

"Do I want what?" Rose turns to her side, watching the play of his hands across his stomach as he rests on his back.

"Well, I just mean, do you want to -- we could have a cuddle?" His voice lifts on the end, making it clear it's a question he's putting to her and not something he's declaring.

She considers having a go at him, but he already seems so vulnerable in his plaid pajama pants and his thin white t-shirt and his uneven stubble, that she nods instead.

"Which spoon do you want to be, Doctor?"

He shifts a few times, like he's figuring out the logistics, and then nods decisively, "The big spoon."

She rolls to her opposite side and scoots back into him at the same time he moves his hips forward to her. It's something like finally fitting together a puzzle and she can't resist wiggling a bit.

His breath hitches and his arm flies out to wrap around her waist, stilling her, "Bit of launch sequence on this body, I'm finding. Can't quite, uh, figure out how to stop the countdown once it's activated."

Such an absurd metaphor and Rose still thinks activating the launch sequence sounds like a great idea. But if her copilot isn't for it yet, she'll wait.

&&.

The rocket tries to fly itself over night.

Rose wakes up slowly to the feeling of a hand wrapped around her breast and her leg slung back and over the Doctor's. She flexes her toes and realizes she'd been caressing his calf with her foot. He nuzzles into her hair and mumbles a greeting as he tightens his arm and rocks his hips into her bum.

"Well good morning to you, too," she keeps her voice quiet, trying to prolong the fragile intimacy.

(Trying not to wake him up.)

His hand skates down to scratch soft circles on her thigh and it's only when he spells out his name that Rose realizes he's definitely already awake, and that he's not running away. She holds her breath and he stops.

"Ticklish, Rose Tyler?"

She tries to roll into him, to see his face, but he stops her with his arm.

"No, not ticklish," she pauses to find the right words. "Happy though."

He hums in affirmation and Rose feels the sound vibrate from his chest to her back. He gives another quick rock of his hips before pulling back to bound off the bed.

As he moves to dash into the en suite, she stops him, "Doctor?"

He pauses, half through the door, and eyes wide and hopeful, "Yeah?"

Come back to bed. Come fuck me. Come tell me you love me again.

Instead:

"You snore, too."

&&.

It's 44 interminable hours before they have their first (or second or third or fourth) kiss.

It's 44 and a half hours before they finally sleep together.

There is, almost predictably, a game involved.

They've checked into a hotel because her mum is having the upstairs rooms painted.

("That was never meant to be the permanent color, Rose. If you two are going to live there, I can't having that awful faded purple forever. What if my first grandchild is conceived in an ugly room like that!" Her mum, perhaps, is going a little crazy with the whole lady-of-the-house thing.)

In addition to the fancy restaurants, and fancy lounge, and fancy music, there is a less-fancy arcade for kids. Kids who go to bed at 11 p.m., leaving one-and-a-half grown ups (75% each) the run of the place.

After a rousing game of table tennis, and a basketball shootout, and a few car racing games, the Doctor decides there ought to be stakes. There's an old science fiction-themed pinball machine in the corner, and whoever comes out with the higher score gets five minutes to do as they please with the other.

There's a decidedly sexual undertone, but the Doctor's examples are deliberately innocent things like, "Make Rose sing Christmas carols at the taxi line." or "Flat iron the Doctor's hair, but not too much, Rose, not enough to burn it. You wouldn't, right? Rose?"

Halfway through the game, Rose rubs her eyes with fingers dirty from arcade token and joysticks and suddenly the Doctor's torn between allowing her a point handicap, or helping her get something out of her eye.

When she points out that he is, in fact, a doctor and helped write that damn oath, even, he pretends to debate and makes a show of relenting.

He guides her to a zeppelin ride, insisting she squeeze onto the small bench so he can get a good look. He makes a show of patting his pockets, looking for the sonic screwdriver she knows he cobbled together while she met with Pete at Torchwood one afternoon.

Once he's indulged his flair for drama, he pulls out the sonic and shines it in her eye, before stooping low and close to her, "Oh, just an eyelash. Hold very, very still."

The Doctor's long, slender index finger is making its way to Rose's eye and she rears back out on reflex, "Germs!"

"Sonicked them clean," he tuts. "Now hold still."

It's over in just a second, and then he's pulling his finger away, a tiny eyelash perched on the tip.

"Make a wish."

She blows the lash from his finger and nods, satisfied it's been carried away.

"What did you wish for? Anything good?"

And he's still leaning so close, looming over her in a way that feels safe and warm and Doctor.

She hadn't thought to actually wish for anything, so preoccupied with the placement of his other hand wrapped around her waist, the sonic clasped between his fingers and her hip, but she plays along anyway.

"Of course it was good, but it feels a bit like a waste, seeing as I was going to beat you in pinball anyway." She looks pointedly to the machine in the corner to see that it's reset itself.

"Oh, you were, were you? I hardly think so. I believe the initials SDT were in the lead, Rose. That's 'Sir Doctor of Tardis,' not 'Sir Doctor's Troublemaker."

The hand that had been holding the eyelash drops to cup her neck and it's such an intimate hold, in such an inane setting.

"I'm a troublemaker then? And your troublemaker, at that?" She pokes him in the chest to emphasis her point, but leaves her hands there, uncurling them across the firm muscle and bone, the steady beat of his heart.

"Well, it's only fair -- I'm your troublemaker, too." His head is inching closer, and Rose can feel the air released on every word, now spoken in a low, husky register.

"What would you have wished for?" She feels him release the sonic, feels the weight of it secure in the back pocket of her trousers before he moves his hand higher to curve around her back, fingers curling to scratch along her spine.

"I have to admit, I'd have wished for something that was always going to happen, too."

"Yeah? What's that?"

The spicy smell of him catches on the air as his head moves in toward hers, "This."

And he's kissing her.

Finally.

Again.

It's slow and dry, just lips touching and eyes closing and then, without thought or effort, her mouth opens to his. She feels the warm slide of his tongue against hers, and that really is a first, in either body. He angles his head and steps closer to the ride she's sitting on. She hears the toes of his trainers hit its base, before he puts one foot up the small step, leaning into her so she reclines as much as she can.

Her hands move from his chest to wind into hair that smells like her, like her shampoo, and she'd only ever thought of his scent on her, but the opposite is just as attractive.

The small noise she makes in her throat, a thing she hopes says something like, "Please continue, I'm enjoying this an awful lot," but probably just sounds like a whimper and a groan, makes him grin against her mouth.

She's left to grin back against him, but neither can bear to pull away first, so it's wet and smiling and tongues, and when she gives a tug on his hair he makes a noise to match hers.

The shell of the toy zeppelin is blocking her hips from his, and the ride is too small and the Doctor too large to pull him into her lap, so she arches uselessly into him, her chest connecting with his, but her hips meeting air. The ride shakes as his hips meet it and Rose feels gratified that she's not the only one longing for friction.

His hand snakes from her neck down to rest on the top of her breast before skating to the side and back up from below. She'd worn a thin camisole with a built in support instead of a bra and she feels his hand groping through her shirts, trying to locate the edge of a garment she's not wearing. Her theory is confirmed when the hand on her back angles up, looking for a clasp.

"Rose Tyler, are you not wearing a bra?" The last word is swallowed by a shriek from a woman in pajamas entering the arcade.

The Doctor jumps back from Rose, fumbling off the ride and nearly tripping to the floor before righting himself. Rose is still wedged in the ride and can do nothing but look on helplessly as the woman's eyes go wide with recognition and she calls out to someone, high-pitched and panicked.

"No, Philip, I don't think you left your mobile in here! Mummy will keep looking!"

She backs out of the room just as Rose frees herself. The Doctor grabs Rose's hand and, oh, the running, right toward the elevators.

(Right toward a bed.)

&&.

The hotel door lock is no match for sonic technology and it glows an unnaturally bright green before relenting.

The urgency of the situation seems to have abated and Rose is left to follow the Doctor into the room, a finger looped through one of his belt loops. When he turns to her, she frees her finger, but keeps her hand at his waist, her thumb rubbing at his hip bone with clear intent.

"I maintain --" the Doctor stops to clear his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck. " -- I maintain that I would have triumphed in the pinball match."

She arches her eyebrows for him to continue.

"As such, and as a fulfillment of the terms of the agreed upon wager, I'm collecting my five minutes."

He cuts off her rebuttal, "In anticipation of a formal appeal from my opponent, I propose awarding her five minutes, redeemable immediately after mine."

Rose tilts her head to consider this, "Would the contestant be open to a compromise?"

The Doctor nods and guides Rose by the hips as he walks himself back to sit on the edge of the bed.

She stands between his legs and ruffles his hair a bit before finishing.

"I propose that we combine the minutes to make a full ten, add another 20 for the delay of game, double that for a penalty incurred on account of a meddling pajama-wearing woman, round up from there to the morning and extend that out to every morning, just to make it easier to remember."

In one fluid movement, the Doctor switches their positions and is crawling over Rose as she scoots up the bed.

"Done," he says, but it's more of a growl and more than a bit muffled against the skin of her neck before he gives it a nip.

She's clawing at his back then, fingers gripping as she runs them to his shoulders and back down to his arse, pulling him into her hips as he sucks wetly on her collarbone.

He's scooting her shirts up to her armpits inch by inch, still confounded by the bra/vest combination and then delighted when it means there's no longer anything standing in the way of her breasts.

Pinching and licking and teeth and her shirts are off, and his now, too, and then her jeans are dangling from the bed, hanging off one foot as she works at the fly on his trousers. And it would be embarrassing, the noises she's making, if she thought he could hear them over the string of words falling from his mouth now.

Filthy words, full of aggression and heat, lovely words of promise and hope and the future, and words that combine both, like he's going to fuck her, only her, forever, and do you want that, Rose? Tell me you want that. Tell me to fuck you and never stop.

And she tells him with the way she pulls frantically at her knickers, the way she shoves his trousers and pants down to his ankles, but he's still using words, still talking so much. Laughter and joy and passion and she almost want to tell him to shut up, to be quiet, that they should know this is serious and sad, and a resignation. She feels her hand around the back of his neck tighten, and the enthusiastic noise he makes as he guides himself inside of her and she knows.

It's a benediction.

He quiets just as she reaches her loudest, shouting her climax to the ceiling as he goes still with tension and a bitten-back moan, emptying himself inside her.

&&.

The papers the next morning tell the harrowing story of a woman trying to locate her son's missing mobile and instead stumbling upon the Vitex Heiress and her beau, fornicating on a children's ride.

Ella Price sends a bouquet of flowers and welcomes them to the club.

&&.

The first time anyone ever mentions them splitting up -- in a way that is a function of human romantic relationships, and not, say, splitting up to solve a mystery -- they are back in a hotel. On a consulting assignment for Torchwood, they have a row about unnecessary danger and fragile, finite lives.

A coworker, lacking in the tact department, and staying in the room next door, asks the Doctor the next day how he's feeling, because that sounded like a break up fight if he'd ever heard one.

The Doctor proposes the next day, with a ring under the glass of pinball machine he'd bought for the Tyler house.

Rose accepts, and laughs, and teases him that divorce is just breaking up for married people.

The Doctor does not think it's funny and when he speaks his vows to her in a tiny garden park near Tony's school, he uses words like "forever" and "never ever" and "always" and finally seems to realize Rose has meant them all along.

&&.

There are new games they play then.

Games like traps to see who will finally give in and clean the loo.

Games like blindfolds and being tied to the headboard.

Games like chicken and tiptoes instead of talking. (I enjoy kids. In theory. Or in practice? Wait, which way do you enjoy kids? Do you want to enjoy kids with me? Oh god, now I sound like a deviant.)

Games like real games, pub trivia with their friends.

(And the bits where he says, "Fine, I’ll accept the idea that I perhaps shouldn’t have interrupted the quizmaster to dispute the existence of a second planet called Pluto, but honestly, Rose. That’s just — it’s just short-sighted is what it is. Arrogant, even. Only you humans could convince yourselves that you’re the only species to name something 'Pluto.' I can name seven different Plutos off the top of my deceptively-small-for-the-amount-of-knowledge-it-contains head. I mean, just listen to how fun it is to say, Plu-to. Plu-to. Of course another species would have stumbled across that combination! You lot liked it so much you even called a cartoon dog that!"

  And she answers, "Doctor, I believe you. Jake believes you. Everyone on our team believes you. And we like it that you know so much, I love it, even. Haven’t had to pay our tab at a quiz in months. But you know what else we all would like? Finding a place we can return to the following week. We’re gonna be well outside of driving distance if you keep this up."  

And then he’s following up, "Why would we want to drive anywhere? If you’d just let me stay home and work, we might get the TARDIS operational sooner and then I could take you to a pub quiz on Pluto. And you can bet no one there would challenge me on the existence of more than one planet called Earth because, well, because they’re a very submissive people, don’t like confrontation, the New Plutonians, but also because they’re not so closed-minded!"  

And then eventually they’re home and you just lie there, Rose, and you’re the universe now, and here’s a Pluto, just to the side of your knee, and here’s one behind your ear, here’s one high up on your bicep and:  

"Doctor, what about here?" and arching her hips.  

"No, no, there’s not one there."

  "You sure? You sure it just hasn’t been discovered yet?" and arching her eyebrows.

  "Ah, yes, yes, discovery, very important for, um, discoveries."

  And there’s a freckle there called Pluto now and it’s his favorite one.)

&&.

There are the games that other people play around them, too.

A group of kids riding by on skateboards, doing loud tricks and yelling and the Doctor is trying to maintain a rhythm, trying to thrust, and Rose is squirming and laughing beneath him, cringing when they make out the voice of their son above all the others.

Their daughter following the noise of the sonic screwdriver to her dad in a haunted house.

An old and gray Jackie pretending from a hospital bed that it will all be all right.

&&.

(But mostly there is the Doctor and Rose: a team.)

fic; SBTB RPF: hand it in tomorrow, it'll be all right.

cereal — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 00:36:56 GMT

Yuletide, la la la!

I wrote:

title: hand it in tomorrow, it'll be all right.
for: cashewdani, which, upon receiving my notification, I was like OH MY GOD I KNOW HER! Like this was 'Elf' and she was Santa. And then I actually got to message torigates for help (which, THANK YOU FOR THAT!) and was like, OH MY GOD, I KNOW THE HELPER, TOO!
fandom: Saved by the Bell RPF.
pairing: Mark-Paul Gosselaar/Tiffani Amber Thiessen.
rating: PG-13?
words: 3,511.

They tell time by Mark-Paul's roots instead.

you make my heart beat faster.

cereal — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 05:57:58 GMT

OK, first let me say, my Yuletide gift was AH-MAZ-ING. It was Happy Endings, Penny/Dave and not only was it what I asked for, it was BETTER than I asked for. It's just perfect show humor, perfect characterization, make outs. A better use of your time would be to skip this entry and just go read this story:

Apocalips.

This is the first Yuletide where maybe it's not painfully obvious which story I wrote? I don't know. But it's also kind of a niche/one-off fandom, so maybe it is obvious, but not noticed? It's actually for one of you! Which I think is the first year I've had that happen! I had fun writing it! I had fun not writing Community for a change! (Not that I don't like writing Community, but this would've been the third Yuletide for it. I couldn't even handle offering.)

Anyway, I can't wait for reveals so I can go find everything from my f-list that I might have missed.

This entry is just a tornado of trying to say everything and get it up before the new year, so.

We were at the pediatrician's office, and I was meeting him there, and I had Flynn, but was running late, so he's just apparently like lurking the lobby and this security guard comes up to him, and when he was telling me this story, I thought he was going to get in trouble for being a creepshow or something, but instead, the security guard keeps passing him and then finally the guy comes up to Al and is like, "You've probably heard this before, but you look like that guy from Criminal Minds."

And Al's like, telling me this and is like, "and I have heard that before, but I thought I was going to get in trouble," as if that were the point of the story. And then I was like, "WAIT, WHO?" And he's like, that guy Reid. And I'm like MATTHEW GRAY GUBLER?! And he's like, yeah. Apparently people tell Al he looks like Matthew Gray Gubler. What universe are these people in that I'm seeing a totally different face? I see his face all the time. I know what it looks like.

Al also had to clean the front yard "debris" because the HOA said so, and he's doing it and this old man that lives two doors down starts talking to him and he's like, "Oh yeah, I make and write country music" and Al's like, "Cool!" And then he sold it so well, that the guy went in and got him one of his CDs which is like "Phil and Lucy Sing Songs And Wish You A Merry Christmas" or something with a printed out sticker label clearly designed in The Print Shop. So that's sitting on our counter. And apparently Phil was like, "You look like you play an instrument!" And Al's like, "Uh, saxophone? But not in a while."

And the guy then told Al that he would've thought piano. I don't know if this is a finger thing or because Al looks fair or something. I told him it's because his hair looks like a powdered wig, but I don't think he heard me. But anyway, people keep saying that about Flynn, that she has a piano player's fingers, and now that apparently someone's telling Al that, I'm like oh good, the only parts of me Flynn got are my erratic temper and appetite.

Anyway, I just, when Al tells me stories about people talking about him, it's the most ridiculous thing. He's had the baby for the past two weeks on vacation from work and keeps going to stores and apparently getting hit on because: cutest baby in existence. But for Al to even notice, someone probably took their top off.

So basically, my new favorite thing is finding out about this separate life Al apparently lives where people talk to him about stuff like this and it's hilarious. Like, I've seen him get chatted up or whatever and theoretically I knew that Al didn't cease to exist when I wasn't there, but he doesn't talk about stuff like that much and now he does and it's basically the greatest. But seriously, it's kind of weird that the people you're closest to have a whole separate life that you're not a part of, like at work or in public or whatever. I don't know where I was going with this except that Alphonse does not look like Matthew Gray Gubler.

Mostly he's Al and the idea that anyone doesn't relate to him in exactly the same way I relate to him is, at best, baffling to me.

My phone was stolen from a food court in the casino down the street before we were going to see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (thank you, tumblr, for answering my question re: make outs). And then they kept turning it off and on and we knew someone had it, so my mom was texting it to say call her if you find this phone and leaving her number. And then the next day she got these texts:

Which, ugh, how fucking ballsy and disgusting. Apparently they can trace the IP with a subpoena from the police, but I don't even know. I went and got a new phone yesterday, because I am the worst sort of person, that starts shaking without a phone with internet access and I've had iPhones for the last four years (oh my god, it's been four years since those. what.) and you can't teach an old dog how to work a different phone and I hated what it said about me that I didn't even last three days before breaking down and buying a new phone.

But that's my camera! I actually lost a bunch of pictures of Flynn! Now I have the tracking on! Ugggh. i hate this story, all of it. I like my new phone though, mostly. I've already shouted down Siri at least four times, before giving up on using it/her. I just want ease-of-use when reading fanfiction portably, that's all. I've named my new phone Gob.

Flynn got so many presents for Christmas, it was crazy. My mom went BANANAS. I mean, Al and I got her a bunch of stuff, too, but my mom like, lost it. She got all sorts of toys, like that talking playing dog thing from the commercial and a little scooter car and a seat and I got her a starry night sky projecting turtle and also a toolkit and Al got her lots of little stuffed animals and, man, babies make out huge on Christmas.

I got Al Skyrim because that's what he wanted, and he got me new Wellingtons, because that's what I wanted. Because it rains so much in Las Vegas, whoops. I had pink ones from J. Crew, but never wanted to wear them, so now I have the black Hunter ones that are not glossy. I just like rain boots. Al also got a bunch of clothes from me and my parents that are continuing his NPR-cold-weather-hipster-dad aesthetic. My dad also got him a toolkit.

The craziest though was my dad also commissioned this blanket for Flynn? It's crazy. He picked out all this fabric at Jo Ann Fabrics, like Toy Story, and robots and dinosaurs and then found and paid a local senior citizen to make him a blanket, like from a bulletin board at the senior center or something. And then had it embroidered with Flynn's name. If you ever meet my dad, please come back and reread this story and we can talk about how nuts this is.

Some of these aren't resized and I'm sorry, but I'm lazy.

And because I've done it for the last four years (2007, 2008, 2009, 2010), here are:

1. What did you do in 2011 that you'd never done before?
Got pregnant. Had a baby. Parented a baby.

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I resolve, in vague ways, to quit doing things that are bad for me every single year. I'll just stick with that, probably.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
I FUCKING DID! I HAD A BABY! Also my cousin Carly had her second baby, a coworker and myr_soleil, who offered a much less manic and much less worrying perspective on livejournal-ing through your pregnancy than I did.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
My dog Buffy. I don't care if other people don't count that, I do. She was the best dog in the world.

5. What countries did you visit?
None outside of America. This one is always the same, too, but I'd like for it to be different. England in 2012 with DJ for his high school graduation was a plan in the past, but I have a baby now, so who knows. Love that baby though.

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?
Um, last year I mentioned a baby in a vague way, like fully knowing we wouldn't start trying (i.e. that I wouldn't stop birth control or start charting or whatever because: that is a lot of premeditation and we are chicken shit) or anything because hahaha like we are ready to have a baby, more just like an abstract wanting of a baby and then instead I got SURPRISE! pregnant sometime in early January and so apparently just saying things out loud hear can make them happen, so: a lot more money, I would like a lot more money for Al and I and my family.

7. What date from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Sept. 9, when Flynn was born! Whatever day that was I found out that I was pregnant. Oh god, I should know that date. I remember the day a lot. Flynn's first nights at home? A lot of Flynn stuff, Christmas, etc. Pregnant things too, like pregnant at Comic-Con, pregnant at Disneyland, pregnant in New York.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Making and having what is, categorically, the best baby in the world that I've ever met.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Being a little reckless (after Flynn was born, not when I was pregnant).

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
The stress of labor?

11. What were the best things you bought?
Everything I bought for Flynn. Certain pairs of tight pants for Al. A new iPhone, literally yesterday because someone took mine and it's frustrating and ugh. Siri is more trouble than she's worth maybe? But I would go crazy without my phone because: internet.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Flynn's! Al's! He's turned out to be an even better dad than I expected! Presently changing a diaper and talking and smiling at her. My parents, for all the help.

13. Whose behaviour appalled you?
Some people at work, sometimes my family's.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Flynn, student loans, bills, stupidity.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Having a baby, oh boy.

16. What song will always remind you of 2010?
Stupid fucking Foster the People. I hate when the radio ruins things! It was so good and then the radio was like I WILL RUIN THIS THING YOU LIKE. Also, Matt Nathanson, "Faster," which has defied me every time I'm in a bad mood and then I'm like, THIS DAY IS A GREAT DAY. And Black Keys' Lonely Boy, because I never dance so well as I do in the seat of my car.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? Happier, oh man, in a way I couldn't have imagined.
ii. thinner or fatter? Slightly fatter, but more importantly, way squishier. My stomach muscles are just shot out to shit still.
iii. richer or poorer? Poorer, had a baby!

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Saving money, saving face. Perhaps learning about how to parent? But I think classes of any sort would've really stressed me out.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Putting shitty things into my body! But that's mostly sandwiched around finding out I was pregnant and after having Flynn, because I had to treat it all right when I was pregnant. Maybe less worrying?

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it at Kyle's house with my family and a bunch of Meredith's family. We spent Christmas morning at my parents' though, and that was fun.

21. How will you be spending New Years?
With a baby, I imagine.

22. Did you fall in love in 2011?
Fell in love with a baby, in a non-creepshow way, looking at you, Jacob Black.

23. How many one-night stands?
None, although I spent a lot of time telling Alphonse that he was definitely in the top five for people who were this baby's father, which is a thing I'll have to stop before Flynn learns English.

24. What was your favorite TV program?
The 10th Doctor seasons of Doctor Who, Parks & Rec. But seriously, this year was almost entirely about David Tennant's Doctor and David Tennant's face and climbing David Tennant like a tree.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
No?

26. What was the best book you read?
I don't think I enjoyed a single book quite as much as I enjoyed some of the fic I read and I don't even care what that says about me.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Is finding out Flynn kicks to the TRON: Legacy/Daft Punk soundtrack a musical discovery? I discovered that happens.

28. What did you want and get?
A healthy, awesome baby. Al to be a good dad.

29. What did you want and not get?
A significant amount of money, losing all my baby weight plus 20 pounds.

30. What was your favourite film of this year?
I don't even remember. Clearly it couldn't have stuck with me that much? Maybe Moneyball.

31. What did you do on your birthday?
My family came to our house? I think? Al also probably took out me out to dinner and he made me a TARDIS card and bought me a nice wallet.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
A lot of money, a longer maternity leave.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?
Pregnant, in men's plaid buttondowns and a lot of tank tops.

34. What kept you sane?
Al; my mom. The internet. The TV.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
David Tennant, even though I hate 75% of the choices he makes when he's allowed to dress himself. I'm looking at you, Abercrombie and Fitch everything and velvet?

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Human rights.

37. Who did you miss?
College friends. Cleveland family?

38. Who was the best new person you met?
FLYNN.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.
Sometimes you just have to figure it out? I don't know.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

Maybe Arcade Fire, The Suburbs? so can you understand? / why i want a daughter while i'm still young? / i wanna hold her hand / and show her some beauty / before this damage is done.

I don't know, that one's always hard.

never can hide it when you look surprised.

cereal — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 20:58:22 GMT

(Most of this was written yesterday! I don't know why I didn't post it!)

Well, I had huge, grand, wonderful plans to journal my way through maternity in loving detail and instead Tuesday I go back to work. I can't believe it's been three months. I can't believe that means I have a three month old. Just. what.

This post is going to be so out of order, but I wanted to just vomit it all out there so that I can not have anything standing in the way of finishing my Yuletide and possibly the end of the year meme. Also, oh my god, could the holiday love meme and everyone's comments have been nicer? No, they could not have been. A New Year's resolution I have is to be amazing at responding to comments, but I'm starting it right now. Moving forward. Because the new Jamie does not get overwhelmed with happy feelings and then get flustered and never write back. New Jamie WRITES BACK.

Here are a lot things:

All right, so first is that I got so mad at my family last weekend that I wanted to burn something to the ground and then roll around in the ashes screaming and feral. If that visual isn't doing it for you, just imagine that someone who has a temper on an unpredictable schedule is told not to breastfeed in the living room at my parents' house.

Like, OK, I was not about showing my tits to the world, I am still not about that, but Flynn is a good little eater, latches well, blah, blah, blah, but we've begun supplementing with a bottle, too, so that I don't have to pump at work (because I live in fear of trying to pump in a conference room and someone trying to find me and talk to me), whatever, I don't even know about this part of the story, but then for last Sunday night family dinner, before Kyle got over with his wife, my dad was like, Kyle said he's not coming if you breastfeed in the living room. And at first I thought he was joking because it's not like I ever flaunt anything, but then no, my dad was serious and was like, "and it makes me uncomfortable, too" and I was like YOU FUCKING PEOPLE WHAT THE FUCK. So they either want me to stick Flynn under her little tent thing for an hour in the middle of a family function, and she's a pretty social and easily bored baby as far as things to look at go, or for Flynn and me to go sit alone in the empty front room. Just. you guys. the primary function of breasts, not even sexual. also, you see more at the beach, also stop fucking looking then.

I don't know, I was actually a lot angrier when this happened than I am now, but I'm still angry and they can fuck off re: this. It's just -- if this keeps perpetuating, this is why some women don't breastfeed or feel ashamed or whatever. It's really awful, the books make you feel like shit if you don't breastfeed and other people look at you like a freak if you breastfeed anywhere that isn't tucked up in your own living room.

So that is that story. It's still sort of going on. I threatened to breastfeed at the table at my grandpa's birthday on Friday, but I didn't, but made it clear that I could if I wanted to. Weirdly Meredith (Kyle's wife) seems to side with the men on this. Meredith says the weirdest shit. I can't wait for her to have a kid and then have her world stand on its ear and I'm going to question everything she does and stare at her breasts.

WHERE IS ALL THIS ANGRY EMOTION COMING FROM.

Moving on to happier things!

Saturday night was Flynn's first overnight stay with my parents. We had a party to go to, one we go to every year, so I set it up with my parents, and then went about telling everyone who would listen that I was going to "get slizzard." (-- erd?) Looking back on that decision, I regret it. But I did, in fact, get ridiculously drunk. I just love scotch so much. And so I drank a commensurate amount of scotch, to demonstrate that love. And I get really sick, really easily from booze, because of some enzymes I'm lacking the normal amount or something, I don't know, I have it written down with info from a doctor somewhere, but I didn't care, and then I just kept drinking. I had a lot of fun, and it was nice to blow it out before I go back to work.

There were all these girls from my old company there, and the first thing they did when they saw me was look at my stomach. It was weird and uncomfortable. I look like a slightly more bloated version of normal me, I still have about 10-15 pounds that i want to lose, ideally, but I'm pretty close to where I was, except squishier. It's weird how I knew full well that I spent nine months gaining all that weight, and then expected it to all be gone in three months before I went back to work. And I feel weirdly prideful when people say I don't look like I just had a baby. Like, why is this a pressure I'm bowing to? I feel like I should be able to transcend that, but I can't. I still feel like I'm lumbering around like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man.

When I woke up this morning, all my clothes were on the living room floor, perfectly laid out in the shape of a body, because I apparently cam ein the front door, laid down on the floor, and took them off and when Al adked if I needed any help, I told him to go upstairs. Also this morning, I couldn't find my glasses, which is bad because without them on, I can't see to look for them? I guess I could have put a pair of contacts in, but I din't want to wear contacts because my eyes were still lubricating themselves with Balvenie, so Al had to find them. They were under the bed. I remember telling Al early in the night that I was sober right then and consenting to having sex with him later, so he didn't need to worry about gray areas. I also remember arguing about the DH, the two-point conversion and I remember eating meatballs.

So, the bad news is I still have poor decision making skills.

Flynn was great at my parents, and slept her usual 7 and a half hours, which I think perhaps my parents thought we were exaggerating about, because a newborn sleeping the night, consistently since we brought her home, sounds like we're just blowing smoke and trying to make her sound exceptional. But she just doesn't like to sleep during the day, she likes a good solid sleep at night, and apparently she doesn't care how old she is.

Oh my god, I sound so cranky.

I don't want to go back to work, but mostly because now I spend my days with my baby and the internet and the TODAY Show. which is the ideal way to spend a day and who would want to go back to work? I had lunch with one of my bosses a couple of weeks ago, just to catch up, and I was just like, I can't even believe how little I care about the things you're saying. it's weird how I sort of defaulted to defining myself by my job before and now it's like, Flynn is number one and then nine miles later is everything else. We have to go to the Mashable Awards party in January and I'm already like, why. why is this happening. I think we're even going to win something and I still am already wishing I were at home with my kid. It doesn't help that I hate talking about work. Like, social media is the most self-congratulatory field in the world and sometimes I don't want to have cyclical discussions about it. I want to do my job, be good at my job, and go home.

Ealrier today I went to the mall with my mom and picked out all my Christmas presents from the Gap. I have a real problem with the Gap now, in the way I used to have a problem with j. crew. i mean, i've always loved the gap, and i remember shopping gap kids as a kid, but their stuff has just been so lovely lately and all I want are sweaters and striped shirts and skirts and tights. I'm back to mostly smalls in their shirts (except for button downs because let's talk about my giant boobs with the breast-feeding), and I can finally fit into most of my old skirts and I feel mostly like my old self, body-wise, and will go back to work and look presentable and I CAN HAVE IT ALL.

My head is a tornado, you guys.

Al has the next two weeks off to stay with Flynn and then my mom takes over watching her on January 3rd or whatever that day is. I'm weirdly excited for Alphonse to stay home with her, because it's a totally different thing than I could imagine when i started, staying home all day with a baby, and I want him to experience it. I mean, obviously there's al ot of days off for me in there, too, because of Christmas and New Year's, but it will still be good for him to experience, and he's said before that he would love to be a stay-at-home dad, so I'm curious if he'll still feel that way. Although the way he looks at Flynn and talks to her and plays with her, I imagine he will.

I feel like so much more has happened to talk about. Flynn smiles all the time now, and is finally in clothes that are the right size for her age. I bought her some pretty sweet presents for Chrismtas. Al and i are buying separate presents for her so that we can be surprised by each other's gifts, since Flynn is obviously too young to care about anything except eating on Christmas. We have a tree, that we bought 10 days ago, and just got around to decorating yesterday. And I say "we" but I mean Al. I was -- I don't know, reading Doctor/Rose fanfiction with Flynn in my lap, I think. Possibly Tumblr, because Flynn likes looking at the colors of gifs more than words on the screen. She really focuses on things now, like the computer screen or the TV or my face. It's fantastic.

We've started to give her little tastes of things, like apple sauce and icing and stuff. There's a lot of different opinions on all that, but I am the pickiest eater I know and Al is the least picky eater I know, so I'm hoping that exposing to her to different stuff early will make her more like Al. I envy anybody who just sits down at somebody's house or a restaurant and will be pleased enough with whatever there is to eat.

Al just called me to ask if it's OK to feed Flynn, and it made me think of something my boss asked me about at lunch. He's said Al and i have a similar relationship to he and his wife, he thinks, and asked if I kind of took the lead with the baby deiciosns, and it's weird, but I did. Like, I'm no more qualified than Alphonse to decide what kind of formula we were going to try or which diapers are best, but somehow that's the roles we fell into? I guess that;s normal, but sometimes I get anxious that I am the primary person deciding things for a tiny human. I mean, he makes decisions, it's not like that, but someone had to take the lead, you know? But I guess I'm kind of worried that this is setting me up to be the Bad Cop somewhere down the line. I wonder if that's a dynamic that doesn't have to exist. I'd ideally like for us to switch off, but the way I can kind of dance Al around, I think Flynn will be able to do the same. I wonder if it'd be different with a boy?

Wow, that was a useless train of thought, I guess.

Anyway, here are a bunch (A BUNCH) of pictures! Some of these are on Facebook or Twitter or whatever, I just take a ridiculous amount of pictures of her face. I tried to keep them relatively in order. There's, like, Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas season.

Oh god, this post was massive!

electronic santa's going to rock your christmas party.

cereal — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 22:19:06 GMT

Oh, internet, I love the Holiday Love Meme. Like, enough to ignore the fact that I want to make a giant post and how that's overwhelming me and just post comments on that meme instead. I always go back and forth about whether to put my own name in, or just leave a lot of screaming, rambling remarks on other people's, but I decided to do it, because it's nice when people say nice things? I don't know.

My thread is here!

I really would like to make an update soon, Flynn saw Santa this morning and melted down. So that was nice. And then, after that, she was screaming her fucking head off, and so I went to change her in Coffee Bean because they have those single bathrooms, not stalls, and I have Flynn in one arm, and the diaper bag in the other, and Al's like, "I'll get us some hot chocolate!" and I'm like, uh.

So I changed Flynn, while Al got us hot chocolate, and she's crying-screaming the whole time, I finally get out, after some impressive juggling, and I'm like, "Could've used your help in there, champ." And he's like, cheerfully, "Oh, I thought it was a woman's bathroom!" You guys, Al and I once had sex in a family restroom at the movie theatre for no reason. And now Al has decided that a single person occupancy woman's restroom to help change the diaper of a screaming baby is probably off limits to him. IF THE JAMIE FROM A YEAR AGO COULD SEE ME NOW

We are going to a holiday cookie exchange right now. If this just involved taking plates of cookies and not talking to anyone, this would be probably the platonic ideal of a perfect party. I'm going to have to talk to people though.

I'm actually pretty happy! I just read this over and it perhaps implies that I am not? But I am! I would be happier if I could maintain a lead over trundlebed in Words with Friends though.

this year's my favorite.

cereal — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 05:06:47 GMT

Dear Yuletide Author (or best friend. Is it weird if I call you best friend?)

First of all, thank you for existing and being awesome and volunteering to write this for me! I hope you weren't mad that I didn't put anything in the explanations on the sign up. I was super panicking that my internet would drop out and I wouldn't be able to sign up before the deadline and my misplaced anxiety, here it is.

But I have some help in the form of a letter! If you'd like it! Basically, I'm all about the make outs. There are no less than eight tags on my Tumblr devoted to various pictures of attractive people kissing. It's my favorite.

Happy Endings: Penny/Dave.

I'm going to be super predictable after that intro paragraph and tell you, I'll be honest, I'm looking for make outs here. Just, them making out, how the group deals with it, Max being himself, Jane, oh god. I really think anything you write here would be amazing. Or a-mah-zing.

Tron: Flynn/Yori.

When Legacy came out, I was secretly holding out hope that Sam was Yori's kid. Just. The kiss! Like, I love Alan as much as the next person with a heart, but Flynn/Yori is my doomed favorite pairing on and off the Grid (see what I did there? Anybody who says something like that is easy to please, I assure you.) Basically, more making out and story and ugh, god, these two.

Party Down: Henry Pollard.

You would think, because the same thing happened last year, that I would've gone over during submissions to make sure Casey was listed as a character. But, just like last year, I didn't do it. So, if you're only matching me on Henry and are opposed to writing Henry/Casey, I will totally understand and still be super stoked. Mostly I just want more of this show, in any form. But Henry/Casey make outs, and where they (and the relationship) are post-the last episode would be a bonus.

Here is last year's letter for a different explanation of this same thing.

Doctor Who RPF: David Tennant.

And speaking of me not being on top of making sure people I want are listed brings us here! Where I forgot to double check Billie Piper would be in! I'd love some David/Billie (or even David/Catherine!) but would be stoked on just about anything you write, I promise. Like, how he's dealing with being a dad? Or trying to make it bigger in America? Or, I don't know, anything!

Mostly, just THANK YOU FOR DOING THIS! Anything you write, I promise I will be THRILLED with!

fic; Doctor Who RPF: oh, i'm a bomb regardless.

cereal — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 22:26:35 GMT

title: oh, i'm a bomb regardless.
fandom: Doctor Who RPF.
pairing: David/Billie.
rating: R?
words: 5,363.
notes: Oh, good god, I don't even know. Circa Much Ado, and because Billie Piper hadn't announced her second pregnancy when most of this was written, it's not compliant with that. Title from Wilco's "nothingsevergonnastandinmyway(again)," which is one of those songs that comes on and then you're suddenly applying it to a pairing that Tumblr continues to remind you should always be making out, non-stop, forever.

He was doing fine -- great, even -- until the play's press night.

There was that little (TARDIS-shaped) box in his head where he kept all his memories of Doctor Who and it hadn't been easy, shoving Billie in there, too, and throwing the doors closed.

Especially because nothing stayed in there. The way Georgia was linked with the show, the way Peter was. Fuck, the way even now, he wouldn't be here, doing this play with Catherine, without it.

The way there was always little bits of it clinging to him, like so much void stuff and the way he couldn't even think of a different metaphor.

So trying to keep Billie and her wide smile and her chipped nail polish and her stupid, bloody tongue in there was never going to last.

And when she'd shown up, and he'd known she was going to be there, had read the e-mail where she'd teased him about the Fright Night promotions and his abs and in this adaption Benedick does the whole thing topless, yeah?, the doors swung wide and out she tumbled.

He'd even forgotten to avoid being photographed with Georgia, he was so preoccupied not being photographed with Billie.

(Not staring at Billie, not trying to read that damn new tattoo, another one that made it clear she wasn't available for -- whatever it was he wanted her to be available for.)

Instead he'd just focused on Georgia's tits, how much bigger they'd gotten, how she'd worn black and a neckline that definitely didn't plunge to try and downplay them.

When they'd gotten too big halfway through the party and she'd had to step away and pump, he remembered that they weren't for him, not right now, at least.

And that's when Billie had found him, also in black, also with tits that weren't for him.

"Where's the missus, then? Or the future missus?" Her hair was up and all he wanted to do in that moment was take it down and watch her shake it out, remembering the way she'd ruffled the sand from her hair after wrapping at the beach, grains sticking to her swollen mouth as they scattered down.

(He found sand in the trousers he'd worn to set that day for months.)

"She's, uh," he gestured vaguely at his chest, "full."

"Yeah, gotta stay on top of that," and she grinned at him. "I sprung a leak in the middle of Harrods once. Ruined a perfectly good afternoon and a Marc Jacobs jumper," she paused. "It's worth it though."

"It's brilliant -- a little mobile Tesco's, and free." He rose up on his toes a couple times for lack of anywhere else to put all the energy he suddenly had.

Billie's tongue snaked out to the side of her mouth and he desperately wanted to hear whatever it was she going to say that made her do that.

"Did you taste it?" Her teeth glinted in the flashing lights of the party and it took him a second to catch up with what she was talking about, and then he was only horrified.

"What? No! Did Lau-- did he taste yours?"

"Yeah, bit of a dare, actually. Said it tasted like toast."

Of all the things he thought he'd talk about with Billie when they inevitably crashed back into each other, what breast milk tasted like was definitely not top of the charts.

"I'll probably skip it, not much daring going on around my house."

"Ah, David Tennant and his refined soy-milk-only palate."

"Read that interview then, did you? Anyway, that stuff's delicious. And it definitely doesn't taste like toast."

"You'd love it, nutter like you."

He wanted to talk about something else, something that wasn't such a vivid reminder that they had so very separate lives, with other people, and tiny people.

"How'd that nutter do tonight, you think? Was it good?"

"It was excellent, you two always had such great chemistry. It looks like you're having a ball up there," Billie waved at someone over his shoulder and he felt a snap of jealously. There was a time when they were always the only two people in any room, no matter how crowded.

"You wanna have a go with me next? Mischievous thing like you, bet you'd be a brilliant Puck."

"But then I'd miss out on all the stage kissing," she was still looking half-distractedly over his shoulder, which was just as well, because normally she'd say something like that with a wink and he was already holding on to his drink far too tightly.

When she refocused on him, it was because the person she'd been waving at had walked up to join them.

Catherine nudged into him with her shoulder, before gushing over Billie's dress. By the time they'd come back around to anything he'd even remotely want to talk about, Georgia was back and Billie was slipping away for another drink.

&&.

It wasn't right, he knew, using his daughter as a reason to ring Billie.

He had loads of friends that had been through the baby thing, hell, even Georgia had been there before.

Only -- Billie, she seemed like the kind of parent he was, or wanted to be. Plus, Georgia was out for the night, placing the baby into his arms with a, "Just -- you. You have her for a bit," and she'd looked so exhausted and had even arranged for Ty to stay at Peter's, that he knew she needed the break. Calling with a question wouldn't be fair.

He was just trying to be fair.

Billie answered on the third ring and he didn't even allow himself a proper greeting, went right in to, "How long is too long for hiccups?"

She'd laughed, that light, lilting, David-you're-ridiculous laugh and had talked him down from calling the pediatrician.

And then he'd said, "Wait, let me put the headset in," and he'd picked up Olive and walked around the house, Billie's voice in his ear, until his daughter was well asleep and he'd put her down in her cot and they just kept talking.

Right until he heard Georgia's car pulling up.

"Hey, Bills, thanks so much for the help. Maybe we should have a -- what's it -- a play date? I mean, she doesn't do much yet, not like yours, but possibly she'll make a face, or roll over. Or get the hiccups."

&&.

It really was his intention to have the kids there. A squirming little note to himself that he was happy and things were good in his life and "the one that got away" was just a cliche lonely people tortured themselves with. And he wasn't lonely, not really.

But then Georgia had gotten the baby ready that morning and announced they were leaving for a girls' day with her mum and "David, I told you last week, don't you remember?"

And of course, now he'd remembered, that was also the conversation where she'd shown him the centerpieces for the wedding first and he'd set to mentally running lines almost immediately.

He'd called Biliie and she hadn't seemed to mind, saying she'd just leave Winston with Laurence and then all of the sudden they were having a play date without the people meant to be doing the playing.

So, just sort of a date then.

It was just as well, he'd leaned over to give Olive a kiss as they left and she'd broken into a gorgeous smile, the kind that makes his heart swell and flip over and right there in the middle of it was her little baby tongue, right between her lips and her one lonely tooth.

And he's had that dream before, a little blonde-haired baby tottering across the flat and when he'd woken up, he'd tried to clear his conscience with the thought that Georgia had blonde hair, too. Or Sophia. Or anyone -- oh, he does have a type, doesn't he? But he knew what the dream had intended, and it was just as well Olive's hair was so dark.

&&.

As it turns out, kids were going to a part of his day with Billie whether they were their own or not.

They'd settled in for a late lunch at some dark, old pub, the kind of place that really ought to not even let children in, but there they were, a whole pack of them -- and two wrung out-looking parents -- at the next table over.

He tried to pretend he didn't notice the little girl staring. Had listened attentively to Billie's story about trying to buy a new car and scripts she'd read and the way the neck of her shirt scooped low enough that he could see her collar bone. Well, she wasn't talking about that, it was just an important part of the conversation to him anyway.

But by the time they'd decided to order another round, it was getting increasingly hard to ignore. He caught Billie's eye and gestured with his head to where the girl sat, perched on the edge of her seat, facing away from her table and toward theirs. Billie winked at him, tongue between her teeth, and his entire lunch hit his stomach like a weight.

Billie turned to the girl, who couldn't have been much older than 10, and she would've been so little when their series were airing, how did she even know them? He sized up the parents, trying to decide if they were the type to buy the DVDs, or maybe just catch the reruns, when Billie said, "Right, Doctor?"

He must've tuned out, lost in thought, but he responded anyway.

"What was that? I'm sorry, I missed it."

He realized only after the words were out of his mouth that she'd called him, 'Doctor' and he'd responded without hesitation. Would've probably even called her Rose, if the sentence had needed it.

Billie gave him a weird look, but said, "Megan here wanted to know where the TARDIS was, I said we'd parked it out front, but she may not have noticed it with the perception filters."

"Oh yes, right, it's out front," he blustered through the sentence trying to decide if she were too old to actually think they were the Doctor and Rose.

"I'll look for it on my way out," the little girl, ginger, he noted, continued to stare at them.

David glanced up at the parents, hoping they'd realize and pull her attention away, but they were busy wrangling a toddler with chocolate smeared on his face back into his chair.

"Well, is there something we can do for you -- Megan, was it?" As he said it, he glanced down to the table, looking for something to sign maybe.

"Kiss."

He heard Billie's foot hit the floor, she must've had her legs crossed.

"What?" He'd been trying to work on maintaining proper manners at all times, something he wanted to be sure Olive had, but that was quickly forgotten in the face of a romantic 10-year-old.

"You know, snog," the girl said, lowering her voice like she wasn't meant to be talking about stuff like this.

He looked to Billie for help, torn between immediately agreeing, scanning for paparazzi, and begging off in the service of, oh, propriety. But Billie wasn't having any of it, gesturing out with her palm up to give him the floor.

"Why would we do that?" If his voice was higher it was only because of all the singing he'd been doing lately, must've done something to his throat.

"Because you're in love," the look she gave him implied he was being awfully stupid about this, but she continued on. "And you only had that one kiss, and only one of the Doctors even got a kiss. Wait, which one are you?"

So many things to address, from just a handful of words from a kid. He thought about pointing out that they'd kissed in New Earth, but then what if she wouldn't count that either, on account of Cassandra?

And which Doctor was he? Rose was meant to be with the part-human Doctor, so it'd make sense for him to be that one, but they'd mentioned having the TARDIS and the part-human one didn't have one of those, unless Russell's deleted scene was factored in, and what were the odds that, first, she'd seen that bit and, second, that the new TARDIS would take the shape of a blue police box?

He was a proper disaster is what he was.

"I'm, um, well, I'm just the Doctor."

That wasn't really an answer, but it appeared to have sorted it for Megan. Where were her bloody parents? Oh, perfect, on the other side of the pub, pumping coins into an arcade game for yet another child.

The girl nodded, "OK, kiss."

"Oh, I'd say that's up to Rose, wouldn't you?" There was a bit of cheek in his voice that he hadn't intended, but he'd done enough in this conversation, it was Billie's turn to handle it. And if the way she decided to handle it was to just give in and kiss him, well, it was out of his hands.

Billie gave him a surprised smile, eyebrows arching upward.

"All right, if we're in love, we ought to, right?" And she fixed her smile into something warmer as she turned back to Megan.

The table between them was just large enough that he couldn't lean over, couldn't make it seem like a casual thing and go right back to his rapidly-cooling chips. Not that he wanted to. What we wanted, desperately and suddenly, was to haul Billie over the table toward him and set to snogging so furiously that Megan's parents would never again let her alone to pester strangers.

Instead he felt his cheeks go warm as he scooted his chair out and stood up just enough that he'd be able to meet Billie halfway.

The look she gave him before she leaned in was a devastating mixture of coy and mysterious and he braced his hands on the tabletop in response.

The kiss was a short thing, just a light touch, her bottom lip between the two of his, but it was long enough for David to consciously not open his mouth further, deliberately not snake his tongue out to touch her lips, because he couldn't be sure that he hadn't spotted any paparazzi. And Georgia. And Laurence.

(The trip to sitting back down in his chair was long enough for him to wish that he would have just done it anyway.)

The girl nodded again, looking appeased, and turned back to her table as if nothing had happened, leaving David to the thundering of blood in his ears and the way Billie's lips were somehow, inexplicably, wet. Had he done that?

Billie snagged a chip from his plate, apparently less affected, because, to him, the thought of putting anything in his mouth right now that wasn't Billie's tongue was abhorrent.

He clenched and unclenched a fist beneath the table, pulling himself together, "Time was I got paid for doing that, you know."

Billie stole another chip, like this wasn't the most awkward situation he'd been in in the last six months, "Oh, apologies, I didn't realize you required the promise of compensation to stomach kissing me." Her tone was teasing and David was relieved to see this wouldn't make the rest of their meal awkward.

Well, more awkward than the way his entire body was covered in hot pinpricks, and all the organs in his chest seemed to be rearranging themselves, sliding about in a pool of guilt.

"Oh no, it's not that, just -- why buy the cow then, if you could get the milk for free?"

"I'm going to let that awful sentence slide and instead tell you about a time I was out with Chris and a boy demanded he sonic something, only he didn't have his sonic, obviously, so he'd had to make do with a pencil. He even made the noise with his mouth."

And that was it, enough to get them through the rest of the meal -- stories about the things fans have asked of them and what they did in response.

He did not mention that this lunch was his new favorite entry in that category.

&&.

There was no reason to ask her over. Georgia could be home for all he knew.

But he did it anyway.

Billie was perched on his couch, legs tucked up underneath her, running a hand over the fabric and Georgia was not, in fact, home.

"This isn't new, is it?"

And it wasn't new, she'd sat on that couch before, when it was in his old flat, when things were different. When the way they were currently inching closer and closer to each other, so that by now their thighs touched, would've been just some questionable, but ultimately harmless, behavior.

"No, moved it when I bought this place."

A cooking show was on the telly, but he wouldn't have been paying any more attention to it if it had been his own face flickering across the screen. Not like he could've heard it anyway, not when Billie's jeans shifting against his echoed like fireworks through the room.

He thought about getting up, jumping up even, forcing some enthusiasm into a situation that was more warm, slow intimacy than was proper for anyone with a girlfriend and a conscience. Maybe he'd give her a tour of the house, show her the nursery and really just hammer into his skull what a right bastard he was being.

As it was, a picture of he and Georgia -- from the Doctor Who set, even -- loomed over him from the fireplace mantle.

If anything, that makes him want it, this, more. Because he remembers that day, remembers the familiar feeling of trying not to bring romance into work (again, again, again) and failing, because it was just too good, the stolen glances and furtive looks, the giddiness. And it was Billie that had set that precedent, created that feeling he was constantly chasing.

And it's such a thin, flimsy thing, bringing it back around to the pub and compensation as a way to push things the tiniest bit farther.

"So, about that compensation. You should know -- my fee's a bit higher now and my agent is ruthless."

Billie grinned and untucked her legs, knocking knees with him in the process and, when she settled, bringing even more of their bodies into contact, "What's the least you'd be willing to accept? There's not a huge budget on this project."

"Oh, I don't know, gig like this, might actually work for free, depending." He was getting brave, close enough now to smell the spicy-sweetness of her perfume, and her lotion, and her shampoo, the way they combined to make an envelope of Billie.

"Depending on?" Her voice had dropped, he would swear it.

"Perks," he cleared his throat. "You know, perks, like catering or getting to pick my costar."

The air around them feels warm and still, like windows in a library, and he knows right then that this is going to go too far.

"Catering? All right, I'll bring you a beverage, Mr. Tennant," she gives him a cheeky grin. Like he'd ever make anyone call him 'Mr. Tennant.'

"Where's the good stuff?" Billie's shifting off the couch, leaving him to lean into the space she vacated, chasing after something.

"Not much here, actually. Seemed rude to taunt Geor -- a pregnant woman. I think there's some whiskey though, maybe."

He pushes himself off the couch and follows her to the kitchen, watching her open cupboards and doors like she belongs there. He thinks about telling her where the bottle is, but decides against it, preferring to give himself a few extra moments for his more -- domestic fantasies.

She makes a triumphant noise when she finally finds it and then scrutinizes the label on the bottle, "Oh, this is the good stuff! Just how much more is your fee these days?" Smirk, smirk, smirk.

"Just for that, you won't be getting the good glasses." Instead, he rummages around in a cupboard and comes back with two dingy superhero mugs. "Spider-Man or Batman?"

"Batman, of course." She looks at him like she knows right what he's going to do with that, and he never liked to disappoint to her. He pours some of the whiskey into each glass, handing her the Batman mug.

"Why 'of course?' This is about Christian Bale, isn't it?"

"No, this is about men versus boys."

"Spider-Man's not a boy! It's right there in his name, Spider. Man."

"Whinging Man is more like it. Always on about his uncle and all that angst over Mary Jane." She's purposefully baiting him now and he lets himself go with it, back to the living room and the couch, where he collapses next to her with a careful arm thrown across the back of the cushions.

It can only take them so far, a conversation like this, and once he's provided a few examples of all the ways Batman is just as whiny, if not more so than Spider-Man (and really, Billie Piper is the only person in the world that could provoke him into denigrating Batman), he's left with the whiskey and the sound of Billie's breathing.

He's not sure why today is the day, why he keeps nudging things a tiny bit more at every turn, poking at them like he wants an explosion, but it's just. Fuck. It's really good to see her again, really good to just be with her, without cameras or significant others or all the reasons he can't think of now that kept this from him before.

"You know, catering usually lasts a whole shoot," he nudges into her and settles down there, feels the pressure as she leans into him, too. Enough of it that he's not imagining it and enough of it that he can feel the vibration of her voice when she answers him.

"Yeah? I'm still full from lunch, what else can the studio offer you, to get you to sign on?"

The way she says it, the low, quiet tone, he's sure she'd give him anything he asked for, but he wants her to ask for it. She's the one that went and made hers legal, after all.

"Oh, I don't know. Tell me about my costar. That's just as important as the project, as I'm sure you know." He gives her a wink, even though it feels like he's laying it on a bit thick.

Billie makes a soft hum and scratches light circles over the material covering his thigh. He thinks about how thin the trousers for the Doctor were, how he wishes he were wearing them now.

"She's a nice girl, decent rack. A bit mental. Blonde."

"Hm, I've had good luck with blondes," and he winces, hoping she knows he meant her.

He doesn't want to leave his position, settled up against her, but it feels more important to be looking at her full on, than sitting at her side with his neck craned. He backs up and angles his body to face hers, licking his lips as she mirrors him, but keeps her hand on his leg as he opens his mouth to speak again.

"What's she like on the job? Is she a risk-taker? Can't be afraid to really get in there and mix it up in the heart of a scene." There's not usually so many layers to their conversations, he's having trouble navigating it all.

Billie looks him in the eye, biting her lip like she's thinking over how to respond, and maybe he's not the only one having trouble navigating.

She gives a tiny nod, "She can be. For the right risks." And her fingers curl just the slightest bit into his leg.

He knows that's it, that's her asking, but he wants it to be more. He leans into her, close enough that he can feel the soft puffs of her breath on the tip of his nose.

"What about when things get intense? I need someone who'll work with me, not against me." His voice comes out like a rumble, all slow and deep, and he spares a glance at his cup on the table to confirm, no, that wasn't the whiskey, that was him. Her drink sits untouched next to his.

"She's good with intense. Not so great with taking the lead, though. Don't want to make anybody uncomfortable, of course." And there it is, she matches his lean, bringing them close enough that if he were on a set, he'd have made sure to have a mint prior.

For all the apparent murkiness before, he understood that sentence clearly and covers her hand on his leg with his own, "Oh, of course. Don't want to take things too far."

And he's practically speaking right into her lips, but it has to be her, it has to be. Not so he can place blame, but because he couldn't stomach it if she regrets this later.

"So," she says, and he almost crosses his eyes trying to track the slow way she blinks before speaking again. "You're in then?"

He nudges her nose with his own, tilting their heads, "I'm in."

If he had to, really had to, he couldn't swear it that she moved first, but it was so, so close and then their lips are touching, and he's kissing her. Not the Doctor kissing Rose, not another on-call performance like this afternoon, just David and Billie, kissing. Finally.

He parts his lips to pull at her bottom lip, angling his head further and moving a hand to cup her face, fingers curling into her hair. Her hand on his thigh unclenches and slides up so she can brace herself as she leans into the kiss.

They pull back and come together a few times, short kisses that could almost be chaste except for the way they're clutching at each other, the warm, furious breaths they're pulling in on each retreat.

When they come back together moments later, he opens his mouth, his tongue snaking out to meet hers, and he spares a thought to how suited they are, that they both moved deeper into it at the same time.

He tugs at the shirt covering her hip with the hand not twined in her hair and she moves to loop both arms around his neck, pulling him into her and back to the couch cushions.

It's such a uniquely thespian problem to have a first kiss with someone you've already kissed, but they sync up quickly. Her tongue slides against his, hot and wet and Billie before she pulls back to nip at his lip. He mimics the action, good at nothing if not taking cues, and she makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat.

It's an awkward tangle of limbs and then it's one of his legs situated between hers on the couch, the other still on the floor as he reclines them fully. Her hands wind up into his hair, scratching and pulling at random. He moves the hand on her hip, slides it slowly up the fabric of her shirt to cup one of her breasts. She breaks the kiss to bury her face in his neck, making a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

He'd like to believe they get a pass, where they exist outside of this being wrong, of this hurting anyone, simply because what's there between them is right, even if the variables never were. It's a bit soppy and that religious guilt he was raised with is gnawing on his ribs from the inside out, an acidic warm burn that he forces lower, until it's mingling with the heat pooling in his groin and somehow it's even better.

She nuzzles into him, licking, sucking, biting, as he finds that what he really wants is hampered by her clothing. He's moving his hand, prepared to slide up under her shirt, when she pulls back from his neck suddenly, a wet sound like suction breaking in her wake.

Leaning back further into the couch so she can see his face she tells him, "You smell good," her tongue coming out at the very edge of her mouth.

He looks down at her, already so tousled and he feels the shift of her hips as she arches up into him. "Yeah? You smell awful." And he buries his teasing grin against her lips.

She slaps at the back of his head and he can tell, just from those few seconds, that they're going to come out of this all right.

They don't undress quite so much as they get things out of the way as they become a problem. Her shirt hiked up to her chin, followed by her unhooked bra, as he moves to kiss her chest. His fly undone and trousers to his knees, before he realizes he'll have to stand to get hers off anyway. He decides to take her pants with them, and steps out of his trousers and boxers before settling back down on top of her.

She pulls frantically at his shirt with one hand, cupping his length between them with the other. He leans his upper body back to shuck off his shirt, pushing himself into her hand as her fingers curl around him. The air leaves his lungs in a loud exhalation and the noise she matches him with is pleased and breathy.

Her legs are so smooth rubbing against his and he pumps into her fist a few times before pulling back to slide his own hand between them. He arches up enough to work his fingers between legs and he's met with enough wetness that he can't resist slipping a finger in deeper, giving a quick rub with his thumb before she's nudging his hand away and lining him up with the hand still wrapped around him.

He forces himself to move slowly, dropping a foot back to the ground for leverage as she spreads her legs even wider and he begins to slides in. They talk so much normally, before, constant, easy conversations about the most trivial things, that the near-silence here is all the more reverent.

It's broken when he's all way in and begins to pull back, "Fuck, oh, fuck," she hisses, and Billie Piper's got a mouth on her in the bedroom, he's practically gleeful to learn.

The low groan that escapes from his lips is swallowed by the skin of her neck and as he begins to move in earnest, her legs move to wrap up around his. She's clutching at his back, his hair, his arse, and he slides his arms underneath her, pulling her forward and cupping her shoulders for leverage.

He manages a steady rhythm of push and pull for a few moments, sucking hard on the join between Billie's neck and shoulder as she bucks up into him. As he begins to falter, moving with abandon, he feels her clench around him and she nips at his ear before letting out a string of obscenities and filth and endearments that send him tumbling behind her, slightly quieter but no less sincere.

She tightens her legs around his hips, keeping him from slipping out, "Just -- stay. Stay there for a second."

He can feel her trying to get her breathing under control and he ducks his head to nip wetly at the base of her neck, smiling as she shudders and arches into him reflexively.

When she finally releases her hold on him, he stands, ruffling at the hair at the back of his neck and taking in the picture of Billie Piper, rumpled and mostly naked on his couch.

She smiles up at him, wide and awake and perfect, and the words are out of his mouth before he can think of anything else.

"Put me down for the sequel, as well."

&&.

build a rocket, boys.

cereal — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 19:54:40 GMT

Good news, I still have a baby. They don't come take the baby back, despite any misgivings you have about your ability to, like, care for a baby. I actually think we're doing a good job!

(That said, the tag on the Up All Night birth episode was the most accurate/relevant to my life thing that maybe I have ever seen. You just take the baby! And they let you! That's fucking ridiculous and if it doesn't seem fucking ridiculous to you, you are a kind of responsible and secure in yourself person that I probably couldn't handle being around.)

Flynn's a month old, or six weeks old, more accurately. Because it's not enough to be like, oh, she's just over a month, total strangers want to know exactly how old she is and other really irrelevant things. Like where her blonde hair comes from when I'm out without Al. Which, I know I'm not blonde, but genetics, strangers. Let's use common sense. And then when Al IS with us, it's all about how much she looks like him. Not to mention, what if she were adopted, jeez, strangers, maybe just say how nice her hair is instead. I don't know, I feel weird being like yes, please tell me about how the baby I carried around for nine months looks nothing like me, ugh. But seriously, things she gets from me so far: sticking everything in her mouth, being a generally happy person until she decides she wants something and then having a meltdown.

And then there are other mothers, who seem to be sizing her up against their babies. This is actually fine and I'm doing the same thing and you know what? My baby is cuter than all of their babies, also she is the best dressed and has the best taste in television shows. Faced, other babies, FACED.

But then sometimes those mothers ask questions about how I'm liking our stroller or how a store's clothes wash up or whatever and I'm like, "Hahaha, that's hilarious, why would you ask me about that kind of stuff? OH MY GOD IT'S BECAUSE I HAVE A BABY, OH MY GOD I HAVE A BABY"

So that kind of total, out-of-the-blue panic is still going on.

She sleeps pretty well, and at her one month check up, she had gained a pound and grew an inch. Al and I haven't tried to kill each other, things are good? His mom was in town for the last six days, and so that was like, well, you're basically my mother-in-law, aren't you? And one of Al's only rules about Flynn's clothes was that she have absolutely no words on her butt, and then Al's mom bought her a pair of pants with words on the butt while Al tried valiantly to get her not to, while still trying to be polite. He failed and she bought them anyway, while I stood at the front of Gymboree and laughed at him. My mom's suggestion was that we just take a picture of her in the pants and then return them, but I am the kind of crazy that I'm like, I don't even want pictures of her in pants with words on the butt to exist, whether or not she keeps the outfit. And Al's like, why, why did she buy that, why does anyone have words on their butt?

Apparently not only am I an asshole, turns out Al is, too.

What else. I don't know. My six-week check up is tomorrow and they'll tell me if I can start having sex or exercising or being a normal person again, I guess. I feel like they're also going to be like, uh, why haven't you lost more of the baby weight? I gained around 40 lbs. during the pregnancy and lost about 20 as of two weeks ago, and then haven't lost another pound. Ideally I would like to lose that 20, plus another 15 or something, but that's crazy talk because you have to work for stuff like that and also probably eliminate potatoes as a major part of my diet. I don't know. It's mostly my actual stomach that bothers me, all squishy. And not being able to fit into all of my fall clothes. I love fall clothes. I just want to wear them. Once it gets cold enough here to actually have to wear fall clothes and none of my skirts/tights fit, it's going to get potentially emotional up in here. Just let me wear you, outfits. eta: I've since had my check up, and it went fine and hooray.

I'm breast feeding, which is like, here, let me go ahead and make your boobs huge and amazing looking, and then let me take that from you to the point where you forget that anyone that isn't your kid cares about your boobs, they've become that much of a non-object to me. Counterintuitive to that, I'm not great about breast-feeding in public yet (…or maybe ever?). I did it once in the women's "lounge" in Dillard's, and flipped my shit the whole time, and then another time at this concert we were at, but I made Al come with me out to this grassy hill and then I wore this smock thing my mom bought me that covers my bits.

I don't know, other than the in public stuff (which I've mostly just tried to circumvent by pumping into bottles and using those when we're out), I'm doing OK with it. It's not as gross/weird as I thought it was going to be and I actually really like it, which is one of the most surprising things so far. I was -- not amped on it, but they really bully you into it in the books and things, so I felt guilted into trying to, and now I'm like, oh, this is pretty cool. And then all the sudden I'll be feeding her and it feels like my heart is going to literally explode in a good way. Plus I've gotten really proficient at feeding with one hand and reading fanfiction on my phone with the other. Like, freaky proficient. And then it's like, oh, no big deal, just giving my child the gift of food AND LIFE from my chest and reading about the Doctor and Rose and that one time they had to sleep together or die. But, hey, I'm not a role model or anything, I'm just an average person juggling a baby and fictional characters and the messy world we all live in, but sure, I'll teach you how to be this awesome.

I feel like I had a bunch of things I wanted to update about, re: baby, but this already seems like a lot of baby talk and seriously, my day is so full of baby, I'm losing the ability to talk about other things, which is horrifying and I hate myself. I have begun rehearsing conversations to myself. Like, OK, maybe today is the day that someone in Baby Gap will ask me about the Republican field for president, what will I say? Or, come on clerk at Babies R Us, give me an opening to tell you about this thing I heard on NPR. The only thing I've refused to think about is work, which is going surprisingly well! I don't ever want to go back to a job, ever again! Unless that job is on a TV show or involves just non-stop making out and/or eating.

So here are a bunch of baby pictures and then I'm going to talk about things that aren't Flynn.

I got into Pottermore however many weeks ago that was. Is Pottermore open now? I'm LeviosaCentaur65, but all I've done is get through sorting (Gryffindor! Which wasn't surprising, but a tiny part of me was like, oh man, you literally have a Gryffindor tattoo and you are going to get sorted somewhere else) and then totally abandon it.

I also have a surprising amount of time to watch TV. I guess I should've assumed this, because babies sleep and stuff, but I watch A LOT of TV. So:

Community!: I am at the point with this show where I wish that there was an option to watch it minus relationship stuff. Like, I could press a button on my remote and opt out, just like closed captioning. I want Dan Harmon to stop trying to make fetch happen, where "fetch" is any sort of romantic entanglement ever. I think this is because I still feel like they're being so fucking smug about it. Other than that, I don't know, I've enjoyed it in a way where I don't have to talk about it after, but I still watch it and stuff. This is basically the same way I watch Modern Family.

Speaking of smug though!
Doctor Who!: Oh my god, did that really happen. I kept hoping I fever dreamed it. I'm still holding out that hope actually. When the hand-binding or whatever started, I was Michael Scott's NOOOO to the power of approximately three million. I didn't really enjoy anything except Stormageddon this backhalf of the series, I think. I just want a million more episodes that are one-offs. And also a million degree less smugness from River Song. Jesus, I'm cranky. Basically this is how I would accurately describe my feelings.
Parks and Rec!: TREAT YO SELF. Ugh, even though Ben crying had me really freaked out, I am still really enjoying everything this show is. Why don't I have any thoughts about anything!
Happy Endings!: Just. You should be on every night. I've written you a poem, it's called "To Me, You Are Perfect" and spoiler, it's not a poem, it's just the script to Love Actually and I've underlined the relevant parts and perhaps drawn a whisker basket in the margins.
Two Broke Girls!: Somehow I think I've seen every episode of this show? My mom DVRs it and then I go over to my parents' and then it's on and if a.) you had told me NOT Kat Dennings would be the part I enjoyed the most, and b.) that I would enjoy any part of this show, let's be serious. But here we are. See also: parts of New GIrl.
Up All Night!: I definitely would like to see all Ava, all the time. I do, however, live in perpetual fear of not being cool anymore, and not necessarily cool, but just somehow becoming awful because now I'm a mom and, ugh, let's make a show where Maya Rudolph talks for 20 minutes and then a show about Will Arnett and Christina Applegate having a baby, and then I can focus on those things separately instead of feeling conflicted about what to focus on.
It's Always Sunny!: Remember when I was worried about not being cool and then I had to actually turn this off when the baby funeral happened because it was too much for me? Looks like that ship has sailed.
Parenthood!: First kisses get me every single time. For a brief second though, when Amber was initially teaching Drew, I just heard a lot of blood rushing in my head and I was like OH MY GOD IS SHE GOING TO KISS HIM TO TEACH HIM? OH MY GOD SHE'S GOING TO TEACH HIM HOW TO KISS BY KISSING HIM. Obviously I blacked out and forgot I was watching a TV show on NBC, but for a brief second it was a possibility and I didn't understand, but had made my peace immediately. I don't know what's wrong with me. Zeke continues to make me so angry about his entire existence, 90% of the time. I was really glad Joel spoke up! My mom was like, "That would be what it would be like if Al spoke up about something!" which tells you a lot about Al probably. One day he is going to pick a battle and finally speak up and he is just going to crush it, because everyone will be so surprised.

Let me just go ahead and ramble for 18 more paragraphs! Which is a thing I could and would do, if I didn't have a child I have to feed. I HAVE A CHILD TO FEED. That should've just been this entire entry and maybe some keymashing.