What Wild Geese Know
by Rabid1st
Doctor Who AU
Doctor/Rose

Rated: Mature
Spoilers: A bit of S3, Written after Last of the Time Lords
Betas: Measi and Keswindhover
Challenge: First time sex where the Doctor isn't a sex god.

Summary: A post reunion story...taking off from the canon premise that the Doctor and Rose never had sex during their travels. All events through Last of the Time Lords apply.

Disclaimer: I do not own nor have any right to use these characters. I wrote this for my own amusement and the amusement of my friends and expect no compensation of any kind.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Wild Geese-by Mary Oliver

It took the Doctor over nine hundred years to learn what the wild geese knew instinctively-how to find his way home.

Twelve seconds into the life he thought he could never have he told Rose Tyler he loved her.

A minute and a half later they had shared their first kiss and she had, once again, promised him forever.

Now, bag over his shoulder, coat-tails flaring behind him, he hurried along toward his place in the family of things.

When Rose took his hand into the cradle of hers, the soft animal of his body spoke. It asked for comfort and release. He intended to give in to those pleas, to give his body what it had been craving since it came into being. It felt strange to him, responding to those muted internal cries. He was used to denying their existence. As a Time Lord, he'd been trained to ignore his physical needs. Time Lords lived in their heads. When a body mewed or winced they cast it aside without regret, like an old shoe worn past mending. Time Lords did not ache. They suffered no wasting indignities, harbored no regrets. They regenerated. They moved on. The price they paid for never dying was never truly living, never knowing love or comfort. The Doctor had shrugged away nine bodies in distress, but not this one.

Through this body he'd become intimate with longing and infirmity. This body had lived with wasting illness. It had known hunger and grief. It had wept and shivered and crawled. This body had endured the Master's trials. A Time Lord to the core, the Master had seriously underestimated this body's tenacity. He had expected to win when he'd played his trump card of old age. He had expected regeneration and capitulation. But the Doctor had gone on fighting.

Crippled and caged, withered into helplessness, he'd focused on Rose, drawing on her strength when his own failed. He had imagined her facing an illness with her general bravado. He had imagined her wasting away, wilting, crumbling into a handful of dust. Rose's eventual death became a reality for him, something he could accept. Weary and worn, he had turned to her people on the Earth below and asked for their help. Any one of them was braver than any of his kind. Humans were willing to chance, willing to feel, able to comfort one another despite their fragile, all too short, lives. Until that year in captivity, he hadn't truly appreciated their spirit, their capacity for love.

Now he did. More than that, he knew he could cope with losing Rose one day, but only if he had something tangible to cling to when she was gone. They didn't have forever. They had her lifetime. He needed to act on his desires, brave his fears and give his body what it loved while there was still time.

"It's just there," Rose said, pointing across the street at a high-rise building. "Number 21, on the sixteenth floor."

Scarcely glancing up, he angled his body into hers. Head tilted down, he beamed at her. "Torchwood pays well."

She squeezed his hand. "Not that well," she said, with a grin of her own and a bounce into his shoulder. "It belongs to Tyler International. It's the company flat, but Dad lets me stay here when I'm in London."

Her father - excellent place to start rebuilding their rapport. "How is old Pete Tyler these days?"

"Fine. Wonderful. And Mum. She's going to be so happy to see you."

"That'll be a change."

"No, it won't," she countered, nudging him with an elbow as they navigated though double doors into a very swanky lobby. Ignored by the reception desk and security guard, Rose towed him toward a bank of lifts. "She misses you terribly. Remember how she used to kiss you silly whenever we came home? You know she loves you." There was a slight catch in her voice as she lifted her chin. He found himself suddenly breathless, sinking into those starry eyes. "I lo...," she began, but he silenced her with a finger to the lips. They were soft lips, parting slightly to his gentle pressure.

"Quite right," he whispered. He held her gaze, all the way in, as he leaned close to brush her cheek with his, adding, "I know and you know."

Touching her made his blood sing. This, his body said, this is what I need. Say it. Tell her. Take charge. He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. The tips of his fingers drifted, along the bow of her lips, across her cheek and down the curve of her throat. Her lashes fluttered closed, veiling her eyes as he drew back. She wanted a kiss. Some signals were easy to read. Her lips were moist, pink and slightly puckered. He'd kissed humans before. He could do this.

Skimming his fingers to the nape of her neck, he settled his other hand near her mid-back. Through her sweater and shirt, he could feel the play of her muscles under his palm. He told himself to kiss her, kiss her repeatedly. He longed to take her against the wall. He wanted to feel her squirming under him, but her sexual signals left him floundering. If only they were on Gallifrey, if only it were mating season. He drew in a tremulous breath. They were so close now, so close to getting it right. Rose opened her eyes when the lift dinged and they both grew self-conscious. Separating slightly, they stepped into the small, dimly lit cabin. He tried to relax as Rose pushed the button for her floor. Relaxation was key.

She whirled to seize him and he sighed in relief, burying his face in the curve of her neck. They held on to one another on the ride up, letting go only when they disembarked. Feeling bereft without her arms around him, the Doctor tried and failed to rein in his nervous energy as he waited for Rose to unlock the apartment door. He shifted his bag from shoulder to shoulder to floor. His hands told him they were lonely. Jamming them into his trouser pockets, he rocked back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel, studying the pristinely elegant hallway while Rose fumbled with her keys. He didn't want to rush her, didn't want to seem too eager. Though he was eager, trembling in anticipation of the night to come. Rose trembled, too. He noticed her fingers shaking as she shuffled through the many choices on the keyring.

He found her fidgets charming. Of course, he found everything about her charming. The cut of her trousers. The tilt of her head. The pink tip of her tongue at the corner of the smile she favored him with as she darted a nervous glance his way. He wanted to soothe her, to tell her it would all be okay, but he wasn't sure it would. He'd never done anything like this before. Oh, he'd danced. He'd followed a human to a room and on, through a door. He'd laid down beside one of Rose's kind, given pleasure and been pleasured in return. He'd fathered children on the Rani and on two other wives. But he'd never made love to anyone. Not once in nine hundred years.

Long before the Time War, his people had given up lovemaking. Intimacy of any kind required certain conditions. And he wasn't precisely sure how to go about replicating those conditions with Rose. How could he begin to express everything he felt for her without the assistance of pheromones or telepathy? Could he make love to her using only his body? The magnitude of the task threatened to overwhelm his nerves again.

Recalling Earth's romantic books and films to mind gave him no solace. Courtship rituals had gone the way of the horse and carriage by Rose's time. He knew her contemporaries surrendered to their sexual urges without much preamble, but even if he had the capacity, it would never do to leap on his beloved Rose like some randy sailor making port after a long voyage. She might want him to, of course. Might expect it even. That was a disheartening thought. What if they simply couldn't connect in a way that would satisfy them both? What if she wanted something more, different, less...alien? He would accommodate her, he supposed, go through the motions as he'd done with other human lovers. Anything to be with her, stay together for the rest of her life.

"At last," Rose declared. The lock turned and the door swung smoothly inward.

A puff of distinctly Rose-scented air enveloped him, wiping every worry from his mind. The signature aroma lifted the hairs on his forearms. He shivered like some wild animal scenting a mate. Perfumed cosmetics layered sweetness above the pungent undertone of peroxide and her unique musk. His knees buckled as the mix of scents wafted by his nose. For one dizzy moment, he thought he might faint from a giddy head-rush of happiness. He leaned his shoulder into the door frame for stability and inhaled deep. This was what home smelled like. It smelled like Rose.

He hadn't realized how faint her trace had become over time, how it had faded from her clothing and her room in the TARDIS. Scenting it fresh brought a flood of sweet memories to mind. He lost himself in sensual pleasure for a moment, drinking in the aroma. Rose, he knew, wouldn't thank him for mentioning her body odor. Humans were funny about perspiration and pheromones. But some of the dearest moments in his long life were redolent with this scent. If he could have synthesized Eau de Rose Tyler during her time away, he would have bathed in it every night.

Rose had stepped over the threshold to turn on a light. His hesitation caused her to look back at him. "Are you coming in?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed.

Shaking off the dizzying effects of her heady perfume, he flowed around the door frame, slinking ferret-like into the foyer. He felt safer close to the wall, less exposed. Rose gently shut and latched the door behind him. Our door, he thought, reaching backward to touch his fingertips to the varnished white surface. Feeling suddenly trapped, he whirled about to look out the peep hole, marvelling at the fish-eye view. Smaller on the inside. Rose tossed her keys at a ceramic bowl on the entryway table. The clatter brought his head around. The keys had landed on top of a few letters, some pens and a corkscrew. She had a place for keys. He settled his shoulder bag to the floor, reached into an inner pocket and produced his TARDIS key. Peering into the bowl, he carefully positioned his key across Rose's, before swirling the chain down in a spiral on top.

"Settling in?" Rose asked, beaming at him.

He returned her grin, and then let his gaze sweep the foyer. At the far end of it a mirror reflected their images, creating an illusion of greater space. Momentarily preoccupied by his reflection, he combed his fingers though his hair, trying to tame it. It only grew more tousled. Giving up, he turned his attention to studying a geometric painting of a tea service which hung above the bowl with their keys. A framed photo of the Tyler family and single glove also graced the gate-legged table. He checked in the table's lone drawer for the other glove, before filing the mystery away for later.

A pair of Wellingtons leaned against an umbrella stand just off the welcome mat. The boots reminded him of the wet sand on his shoes. Sand from another universe, he thought, as he stepped back onto the mat to wipe his feet. Shoes tidied he followed Rose onto the maple-stained hardwood floor. She stood facing the wall opposite the small table, where three brass coat hooks formed a regimented line at eye-level. A yellow slicker occupied one hook. Rose added her purse to another, leaving one hook unclaimed.

Standing at her shoulder, he softly murmured, "A place for my coat. My coat has a place."

"If you like," Rose said, without any fuss or emphasis.

"Could I leave it lying about?" he asked, cocking a challenging brow at her. "Toss it down somewhere?"

A twinkle of delight danced in her eyes, but she matched his serious tone. "I don't see why not."

He sniffed, holding her gaze for a moment before shifting to consider the hook anew. Arms crossed, he lifted his chin to stare down his nose. "I used to have a hat rack with hooks," he remarked. "Two of them. Hat racks not hooks. I used to wear hats."

When Rose rolled her eyes, he decided to give up on explaining. He shrugged free of his coat and carefully settled it on the hook. It looked very comfortable hanging there.

"Coat on hook. Keys in bowl. Feet wiped clean." He beamed at Rose. "What's next?"

She shook her head, but grinned as she made for the first door on their right. He held back, looking along the divergent hall toward two other doorways. A loo and a bedroom, he thought.

"Would you like a coffee?" Rose asked. "Or some tea?"

"Nothing, thanks." He touched a hand to his stomach, just above the one jacket button still fastened. "Alternative dimension hopping always leaves me a bit queasy."

That far doorway called to him. He had to know if he'd guessed correctly. Darting along the passage to peek, he discovered the bedroom he'd expected and a master bath. The neatly made bed was low and wide and wore lovely white linens. Someone, not Rose he felt sure, had folded a blue comforter in a triangle across the foot of the bed and there were sprigs of lavender on the pillows. This was the place, tonight was the night. No human DNA to assist him. No amnesia. No post-regenerative zeal. His pulse skipped dramatically. He had no idea if he could carry through on his implied promises to Rose. But sooner or later, he'd be put to the test in this room.

Lips pursed in thought, he contemplated the headboard and bedside tables, all stained a light butterscotch color to match the dresser and wardrobe. Despite the neatly made bed, the room had a lived-in feel about it. Perfume lingered in the air. Bottles and jars vied for room on the dresser top. The wardrobe doors, standing slightly ajar, afforded him a glimpse of Rose's disarrayed clothing. Stockings dangled out of drawers. She'd scattered her shoes about, several meters separating one matched pair. He remembered this chaos well. Rose had a fine disregard for her belongings. He was very much the same. They suited one another.

"Do you have wine?" he yelled over his shoulder.

"I might. Red?" When he failed to answer, she came to the hall to prompt him. "Doctor?"

"Anything," he said quietly, sauntering out of the bedroom. He edged past her to retrieve his bag.

"What were you doing?"

"Exploring," he said. Jutting his chin to indicate the bedroom, he asked, "Do you mind if I unpack? Toothbrush? Jimjams and so on?"

Rose looked as if she'd never even considered he might stay the night. Her eyes widened and her lips parted but no sound came out. Finally, something he could reasonably take for assent squeaked past her vocal cords. He waited for no further encouragement.

"Back in a jiffy," he told her and dashed away.

Rose barely hesitated before following him. Her footfalls sounded tentative, as if she were sneaking up behind him. Stealth sent the wrong signals to his brain, raising his hackles, tightening his muscles. He didn't need to be any more on edge than he already was. If he got any tenser they'd never get to the sex.

He had hoped Rose would be so happy to see him that her customary boldness would carry them through any timidness on his part. She'd seemed to be following this script in the lift. But something had turned her up shy. He needed her to continue being forward now that they were alone. Females were the aggressors on Gallifrey. Males needed to feel safe and protected before they could even think of mating. But, of course, Rose had no way of knowing that. He'd have to be clearer about it.

Trying to ignore the screaming jitters building under his skin, he unzipped his travel bag, opening it on the bed. How did humans do this? Settle? Nest? They never felt safe. They compensated, he supposed, played elaborate courtship games. Rose had always been above that sort of thing. But that didn't make her privy to his alien urges. He wanted to mate with her. Wanted it with every cell of his uncooperative body. If only she would say something, do something he could interpret as a breeding signal. She couldn't give off the correct pheromones, but other females of her species had no trouble communicating their desires. He'd been set upon and kissed more times than he cared to recall.

But now she had him to herself, Rose showed no trace of what he'd always assumed was a natural human appetite. She stood in the doorway, silently watching as he transferred six suits from his bag to the wardrobe.

He glanced at the bedside tables. One of them held a trashy novel, a few files and a half-full tumbler of water.

"You're still to the right?" he inferred, not really pausing for an answer before adding a stack of books, his journal and his spectacles to the left hand table. They'd shared a bed often enough for him to be comfortable with the arrangement. She would sleep. He would listen to her dreams.

Rose gulped audibly when his hand dropped to the lone button restraining his suit jacket. His gaze darted to meet hers, locking on as he popped the button through its hole. He slipped free of the jacket, casually draping it across his pillows. There was no need to loosen the slipshod knot of his tie, but he rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing the sinewy rawness of his forearms. Rose made another involuntary noise, this one more of a whimper than a sigh.

She devoured him with her eyes. He could feel the heat of her gaze as she mentally undressed and caressed him. The static-filled background hum of her thoughts enchanted him. He wanted to reach out with his mind and pull her in, but he didn't dare. She had her thumb in her mouth, teeth worrying at the nail. Probably this meant something, he thought, probably she was expecting some opening from him.

"Would you like to change?" he asked, when the silence threatened to fray his nerves. "Or we could..." he gestured at the bed.

She spoke around her thumb. "I...don't think...I...uh..."

"I could leave you alone for a bit," he offered. "If you're feeling shy."

She dropped her hands to her sides and huffed at him. "I'm not shy. I just wasn't expecting you to...you never really wanted to...before, and... I need wine," she said and darted off down the hall.

He blew out a pent breath. This wasn't going well. It didn't take a genius of his caliber to figure that out. What had he done wrong? He'd mentally rehearsed this scenario a thousand times. In his fantasies, Rose always helped him along, helped him relax. He'd never envisioned her running away from him. Was it possible she didn't want to consummate their long standing attachment? People generally wanted to get closer to him, touch him. Rose had always enjoyed touching him, he was sure of it. Maybe he was sending the wrong signals her way. Maybe he should just ask her what she wanted him to do. He trailed after her to the living room.

It wasn't a room that said Rose to him. It offered no comfort. A few potted plants cheered the otherwise generically appointed space. Steel and glass furniture dominated, giving the room a clinical sterility. All of the surfaces were polished to slick perfection. Rose wouldn't care about shiny things. Bright red and gold accent pillows warmed an otherwise cool white leather sofa. A wool throw and a messy pile of papers were the only signs she'd settled here. There were dishes on the dining table, a cereal bowl and coffee cup obviously left over from breakfast. Rose, he remembered, tended to drag around in the morning and then dash out leaving things half done. He smiled as she bustled the bowl and cup off to the kitchen.

"No need to fuss," he said, cheerfully. "I'm used to living with you."

He wandered over to the wall opposite the entry. It was nothing but windows, looking out over the Thames to the London Eye. Gazing down on the city, he said, "Very nice view."

Rose returned clutching wine glasses. Her impassive gaze swept the panorama of central London visible through the windows. "It is," she said, handing him his drink.

He cupped his fingers around hers as he took his glass. "Reminds me of the day we met."

"You do see it, then, this time?"

"What?" he said, affecting a Northern accent and an approximation of his former clueless stare.

She laughed, lifting her chin to indicate the great lighted wheel to their left. "I thought of you when I first saw it. Maybe that's why I stay here. I keep meaning to find a place of my own, but... " Moving away from him, she let her sentence trail off. She sat her wine down on the coffee table. "I don't spend much time in London. This place is convenient, though. Close to the tubes. There's full maid service three days a week. Laundry pick up on weekends. If you want to stay..."

"Do you want me to?" he asked on a rushed breath.

She didn't seem to be listening. "Work keeps me busy. It takes me all over."

The darkness outside turned the windows reflective. Watching her covertly in the glass, he saw the haunted glance she shot him when she mentioned her job. Did she think he meant to interfere with her life? Nothing could be further from his mind. He had hoped to add to her happiness. Perhaps, like him, she didn't know what he wanted from her now. They were moving into uncharted territory, testing the waters as they went. Small wonder they were both so tense. Noticing his hunched shoulders in the dark glass, he made a conscious effort to relax, standing up straighter. He took a deep swallow of wine.

"Shall we buy a house?" he asked, trying to keep his suggestion light-hearted.

"I guess...if you don't like it here."

"I think it's grand," he said, still staring out the window. "Fully serviced, lovely view. But it not very cozy. And I wonder, will they let us have a dog? I thought I might like to have a dog. A spaniel, maybe. Or the other one. What's it called? A retriever. K-9 only not as prone to rust in bad weather or bog down in swampland or work out quadratic equations before I do."

"We can have a dog," Rose said silkily.

That was the tone he'd been waiting for, that seductively honeyed inflection. It meant she was pleased with him and his babbling. It put him instantly at ease. Now, if only she would jump on him and be done with it. He wanted her so badly his teeth ached.

She'd turned her shoulder to the mirror of the windows, hiding from him as she stripped off her sweater. Static cling drew her blouse up too, exposing her midsection and a flash of lacy blue bra. He sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward when her reflection made a few hasty adjustments, covering up again. Not promising, that shyness. She tossed the sweater over the arm of the sofa, but immediately gathered it up again, glancing his way.

"I'm not really attached to this place. It's just where I stay in the city."

He sat his wine glass down and turned to look at her. "What would make it home?"

Clutching the sweater to her breast, she shrugged. "Oh, I don't know...if it traveled through time and space?" She grinned and threw her sweater at him. He caught it from the air.

The playful gesture evaporated the last vestiges of tension between them. "Isn't this strange?" he asked, bouncing over to her with boyish zeal. "You and me. In a house. Well, a flat, fully-serviced. I can't think why I'm so nervous."

"Are you?" she asked, sidling closer.

"Oh, yes," he admitted. He edged into her warm circle of body heat until they bumped shoulders. "Quaking like a school girl at her first formal dance. I feel quite light-headed. And my palms have gone all clammy." He displayed one hand for her. "Is this sort of thing generally this difficult? Films always make it look easy. I mean...yes, of course there's the awkwardness that comes up naturally when the astrophysicist and the scullery maid try to blend their two worlds...comic hijinks ensue, but..."

"Who's the scullery maid?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, I'm definitely the astrophysicist. I've got the brainy specs to prove it."

"I dated a physicist a few months back."

"Did you?" He tried to look interested. "He was here? This...physicist?"

"Yeah...no...not so much," she stammered. "It didn't get that far. I just tried to date. Once or twice. But it never really worked out. Different worlds." He tilted his head in inquiry and she clarified. "Me and the physicist. He didn't believe in aliens. Insisted they could never visit the Earth. Interplanetary distances too vast to overcome. Can't travel faster than light. No possibility of ever traveling through time."

"Oh, one of those."

"There's only so much smiling and nodding I can do before losing my mind."

"This isn't helping my nerves," he said with a slight pout, "all this talk of physicists. I'll be the scullery maid."

Rose patted him sympathetically. "It's a better life," she assured him. "So? What would help our nerves? We could pretend we're just visiting, yeah? We've parked the TARDIS somewhere and..."

"No," he said, brandishing a finger. The tip of it brushed the tip of her nose. Her eyes crossed a little as he went on, "No, no, no, no...no." He took a deep breath and released it. The exhale stirred a few strands of her hair. "We have to face this, head on, I think. No shirking."

Biting her lower lip, she smiled coquettishly up at him. "Like a trip to the dentist?"

"Quite right," he said. He glanced around, appraisingly. "I want to stay here. Live here with you. Share the mortgage. Is that all right?"

"Are you sure about the mortgage?" she breathed, toying with his tie, "housing prices are astronomical just now."

"I can always make money," he said. His manner was so matter-of-fact she shrugged, accepting his claim without question. "And the bed?" Seeing her clear gaze cloud over in confusion, he quickly added, "Share it, I mean. We're engaged, yes? Promised? Affianced? Oh, I like that—affianced! What I mean is...we have an understanding?"

"Yes."

She'd quickened his pulse with one syllable. "Fantastic." He inhaled deliberately, forcing himself to shift his attention away from her upturned face. "So...this is our flat?"

"For the moment. Yes."

"Our sofa and chairs and small dining table," he said letting his gaze travel across each piece of furniture. Looking toward the kitchen, he added, "Our microwave oven, cold cereal and nearly empty bag of crisps."

"Our very lovely view of the Thames," Rose offered, nodding toward the windows.

"There on our occasional table is our copy of the Times." It took some effort to move away from her, but he managed it. He sauntered over and picked up the newspaper. Rose retrieved her wine and took a tentative sip. "Do we read the Times? Are we Times people?"

"It comes with the flat. I do the crossword."

"Oh." He tossed the paper carelessly aside. It slid across the table and spilled to the floor. "You go off to work and you come home and we...?" He looked at her expectantly. "What is it we generally do when you come home?"

She barely considered his question before answering, "Eat. Probably. Usually, I shower...change...read or watch telly."

"Are you hungry?"

"A bit, but..."

He held up a forestalling hand. "I'll make us a light supper. You shower and change."

"But...I don't need a shower. Do I?" Pointing her nose at her shoulder, she sniffed delicately. "I could change, I suppose."

"Into something more comfortable?"

"Anyone else would make that sound suggestive," Rose jibed. "You really aren't very good at the domestic are you?"

Hearing an underlying criticism, he pinched his eyes closed. Tipping his head back, he sighed and said, "I am making a muddle of this."

"No," she said, instantly contrite. "You're doing fine, really. This is just awkward. I'm not used to you being so...available, I suppose. It's bound to take some adjus..."

"I need to relax," he blurted, interrupting her. The pitch of his voice rose as, clutching his hair, he paced across the room. "I know it's not what you're used to. You're used to Mickey and Jack and Jimmy Stone, all of them manly men with manly appendages hanging about. It's simple biology. I want to get on with things. I just can't get on with things. Assuming you even want to...get on."

Risking a sidelong glance at her, he could see the wheels turning in her mind as she processed his rambling. She scowled and pointed at him. "When you say 'need,'" her pointing finger came up to tap her chin, "you 'need to relax?' Do you mean you can't..." her line of sight dropped to his trouser zip, "...perform, if you don't?"

"Yes," he exclaimed, elated to have it out in the open. "Exactly. I can't be all...phallic for you."

Her face lost a good measure of its happy glow. "Oh."

"It's not that I don't want to, Rose. I do. But if you were one of my kind, Gallifreyan, you'd be giving off sexual trace, pheromones, signals. And it would be our mating season. We're seasonal. The sun dictates receptiveness. No more Gallifrey. No more sun. No more biological drives."

"Is that why you never...?" She broke off blushing hot pink. "I mean, you said you had moves. You wanted me to spend the rest of my life with you. But you never tried to, well, make a move."

"Right. Yes. I have moves. But they aren't human moves. We can have sex...eventually. Until then, there are lots of things we can do."

"But not," Rose's head wobbled as she considered her euphemistic choices, "shag?"

"Not right away, no! My...equipment is internal. To protect it from the elements." Confused, she furrowed her brow and he rushed on with his explanation. "My...phallus. It has to descend. Before it can do that, I need to process certain signals. If I don't get those signals, I really, really need to relax. My people don't breed like humans. We've got pheromones and phases of the suns to stimulate us. Without those incentives, we just take longer to become receptive."

"How long?"

"It's relative," he squeaked. "You're a different species. It takes you ten, maybe twelve, minutes to reach full arousal." He see-sawed one hand as he went on, "I know, you think it takes longer, but studies show you're equally lascivious, male or female, no matter. You. Not you, Rose, but human females in generally, aren't as focused, of course, or as aggressive as Gallifreyan females. And there's the problem right there. I need aggression."

"I thought you needed to relax."

"From you," he peeped. Oh, this was so very hard to talk about. Gallifreyan males don't initiate mating, that was all there was to it. He met Rose's eye, reaching for her. "I need you to," he balled up his outstretched hand into a fist and growled, "take charge."

"Oh," she shifted uneasily. Her right hand went to her throat, stroking downward as she asked, "Do you mean...order you about? Smack you over the head with a club or something?"

"Yes! No." He shook his head. "Smack me over the head with...?" Appalled by the concept, he wrinkled his nose and glared at her. "What? No! I need to feel safe. I can't relax, perform, until I feel..."

"Safe?" Rose blinked and stiffened, trying to wrap her mind around such an alien concept. "You don't feel safe?"

He gave up. He wanted to disappear, just drop through the floor. Logically, there was nothing to be ashamed of. He was doing the best he could under the circumstances. They were two different species. This certainly wasn't what either of them were used to in intimate relationships. Rose, he felt, was being particularly obtuse about this. Other humans had been willing to jump on him and force the issue.

But he knew those people were the exception. Human males didn't generally need coddling or coaxing. He'd watched Mickey and Jack approach Rose to ask for sex. Mickey had suggested a hotel room. He'd tried to do the same, or at least make things clearer to her, but she'd never seemed to understand. He'd made himself available. But he'd been too conditioned by his upbringing to press her. He couldn't speak, tell her what he wanted for them and needed from her. She'd been lost before he could work up enough nerve for a move.

But now, he'd found her again. And he needed this to work. He tried to marshal his scampering thoughts and breathe away his mounting unease. The world was lurching around him. If she kept him in suspense much longer, he'd probably bolt and run. Maybe they should take a break. Try again tomorrow.

"Could we please just...I don't know..."

"Eat? Shower? Change?" Rose suggested, beaming sweetly at him. Her stiffness had melted away, replaced by a sharp sense of purpose. "Be ourselves?"

When he nodded mute agreement, she closed the distance between them in a few strides. Unable to stop himself, he jerked back when she crossed into his personal space, shying sideways like a startled colt. Rose caught him by his tie. She gently reined him in and, moving deliberately, caressed his chest and shoulder. Slowly the tightly wound tension in his gut uncoiled. As he relaxed, he swayed into her. She reached up to stroke her fingers along his cheek and he turned his face into her palm.

"You make us a snack," she said, softly, "and I'll go slip into something more comfortable." And that, he thought, was how you made the suggestion sound seductive.

He exhaled in relief. "Capital. Absolutely. Food. Yes! Good idea."

END THIS PART