Author's note: Another little one-shot for some prompt I can't remember sometime in the past I can't recall. :)
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"Well, what about that red bicycle when you were twelve?" His voice was tinged with mock exasperation.
"What about it?" came her reply, laughter beneath the surface.
"Well, you can't say I never give you what you want!"
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They stood at opposite sides of the table. She was armed with cherry vanilla ice cream. His weapon of choice was chocolate pudding. They circled the table, back and forth, two old pros, neither giving quarter nor expecting to receive it. Their frequent, if random, food fights were an excellent way of diffusing the tension they seemed to generate like electricity whenever they were together. From the safety of the hallway watched their unseen observer, who tried to never miss the chance to observe their culinary battles. They always had the most unusual outcomes. He remembered coming into the kitchen for coffee one morning in time to have a half a cherry tart fall onto his head from where it had apparently been adhered to the ceiling. He chuckled to himself and sidled closer, being careful to stay within the shadow of the doorway.
It was so rare to see them so unguarded. The Doctor, especially. As of late he'd become even more closed. Jack wondered how long it would be, how much it would take, to crack the control the Time Lord wound around himself like armor.
Rose laughed, and the voyeur turned his attention back to the "fight". It was the most obscure foreplay he'd ever seen, and that was saying a lot. But then, Rose and the Doctor had been indulging in foreplay for as long as he'd known them, and yet they never got past that stage. He didn't understand it himself, but each to their own.
The first volley was fired, and though he'd missed what verbal dart had sparked it, it was impossible to miss the world-class sight of the Doctor with ice cream dripping off of his patrician nose. What was even more impressive was the return shot that doused Rose in a giant spoonful of pudding, splattering across the lower half of her face. He wouldn't have minded offering to lick it off of her lips, but he knew it wouldn't be a welcomed idea. In fact, he knew if they knew he was there, the play would most likely end. It was odd, watching food fights discreetly, he who had openly observed many more intimate encounters in the years he'd been graced with life.
By this time the fight was heavy, white and pink blobs careening through the air past dark pudding globs. He remembered the first time he'd stumbled across this bizarre ritual, and found it so amusing he'd ended up making sure he was audience to their antics. For half an hour or more they careened wildly around the kitchen, until both Rose and the Doctor were out of ammunition, most of it currently residing on clothing or hair or appliances or walls. They collapsed together in a heap in front of the fridge, gasping for breath and giggling like schoolchildren, and he felt it was time to head back to his bed. Watching the fight was one thing, but he'd never met two people who deserved their alone time more than his two companions.
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"Jolly good show, sir," she gasped, laughing.
"You were quite good yourself, madame," came the breathless reply. They sat side-by-side, sugary goo drying on their skin and hair, and feeling happier than either could have ever hoped for. With a sigh, the Doctor stood and offered Rose his hand.
"Same time next week?" he asked. She grinned at him.
"Absolutely. Unless I get you first."