A/N: Right, so, my first Doctor Who one-shot, and probably not my last unless I can get him out of my head. I've not had success getting anyone else to leave before they're quite ready to, so no guarantees there. First and, naturally, 9/Rose.

A Book Before Bedtime

"This one?"

"This one."

He scrutinized the cover of the book, seriously, thoughfully. "Any particular reason why?"

She tipped her head towards his shoulder, almost but not quite lying it there, and grinned. "Because I want to hear you read it."

He turned his head towards her, still that quizzical frown on his face, and she was so close that his nose nearly brushed her chin. She pushed herself up against the pillow and nudged closer; it was cold on the TARDIS tonight, for some unexplained reason, at least, assuming there was a reason behind it, which might be a silly thing to assume anyway. The TARDIS seemed to work by its own laws. A bit like its owner, who ran a finger around the edge of the book now and twisted his mouth to one side.

He opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, said something else.

"Alright."

The book was worn, a bit tattered, well-read, and she couldn't help but wonder how it had ended up on the TARDIS in the first place. It was, all things considered, more than a little out of place.

"Green Eggs and Ham," the Doctor denounced, and cleared his throat as though preparing for a political speech. He glanced sidelong at her and a smile tugged at the corner of his eloquent mouth. "Chapter One: In Which I Am Born and Certain Events Of A Curious Nature Occur Which A Gourmet Would Clearly Never Stand For."

On the other hand, it wasn't entirely inconceivable that Dr. Seuss himself hadn't, at some point, encountered the TARDIS and the man who owned it. That might explain a few of his quirkier rhymes. She grinned and giggled to herself to picture the Doctor leaning helpfully over the writer's shoulder, pointing out inconsistencies in plot and pacing, remarking on timing, scything the chaff from the overall clever wheat of the classic children's story.

"Would you eat them in a lake? Would you eat them with a rake?"

She enjoyed listening to his voice anyway, no matter what the circumstances; but the ridiculous couplets were just too, too much. Her giggles escalated and she began all-out snickering, hiding her face in the Doctor's shoulder. He gave a wry half-smile and took time out from the intriguing narrative to say, "You are easily amused, you realize this?"

"I know, I know." Her fist is balled up with her sleeve and she pounds lightly on his shoulder. Its bedtime, for her anyway, and he's still wearing that jacket. Maybe its not bedtime for him. Maybe it isn't, ever. She teases the thought of bedtime together out of its shell, and traces the edge of his collar, considering. Lightly, of course. She hadn't had a serious fantasy about him in, oh, at least a day. It wasn't politic to do that when the person was actually in the room; results could be disastrous, especially since she tended to get a very distinctive half-witted look on her face when she got too into her own little world. It had been remarked upon.

What he had said, precisely, was, "Rose. You look like a human."

And now?

She's under the blanket; he's on top of it, long legs lazy and shoes untied. She settled the coverlet, tucked it up around her middle a little more securely, and was still.

"Would you eat them in a boat? Would you eat them on a moat?"

Clever rhymes indeed. Kudos to Seuss. The Doctor, the real Doctor, her Doctor, would have written them otherwise. Would you eat them in a boat? Would you like some refried stoat? Or was that, perhaps, how Rose would have written them? She traced the Doctor's legs with her eyes, all the way up. Jeans, hmm, looked comfy. Two buttons. Curious. Very well delineated zipper area. She must be tired. She was slurring in her thoughts.

Her snicker had slowed to a grin, she chewed on a thumbnail quite close to his ear, and he was struck himself with an attack of the giggles.

"Would you eat them in a bog? Would you eat my old dead dog?"

Recognizing a challenge when she heard one, she rejoined with, "Would you eat them in a tree? Will you watch me while I pee?"

He guffawed and flushed a brilliant red, carrying on laughing even as he spoke, interspersing undoubtedly brilliant wit with something that could only be called a hee hee sound. "Would you eat them at the ports? Would you kindly eat my shorts?"

"Will you eat what's heaven sent? Will you kill the President?"

"Will you eat them if I cried? Will you eat them if I threaten you with grevious bodily harm and possible insertion of an object foreign to your natural body biology?"

He was shrieking with laughter; he, too, was easily amused. Either that, or he, too, was affected by the lateness of the hour. Either way, his smile shone, his eyes squinted nearly shut with mirth, and the vilified book lay open on their laps, entirely forgotten about except as an object of ridicule. She smiled brightly, then shut her mouth, and crept closer, and turned on her side, and pulled one knee up till it rested on his thigh. The book slid off the side of the bed and hit the ground.

There was no intense exchange of gazes as they touched; he was still preoccupied with giggling.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, just above his jawline, and that tickled, so he laughed harder. It wasn't particularly discouraging; she could feel it under her lips, and she transferred her attention to one saucer like ear, and kissed it lightly. He tipped his head towards her now, and smiled knowingly.

She grinned back.

"Ahh... takes me back, reading does," he said. "Reminds me."

Not the way she wanted the conversation to go, but alright. She hunched her shoulders and nudged him with her knee. "Really?"

"Ach, yeah, Dr, Seuss. One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Mutated Fish."

"Would you do it in a box? Would you do it with a fox?" she murmured. He smirked.

"Will I do it on the TARDIS? Will I do it with a— starfish?"

"You are so lame," she muttered, but she smiled.

"You're so clever, mate, you figure out a coherent rhyme for my beautiful ship. She's a wonder, but she does nothing for the movement of poetry."

"Despite being, as you say, poetry in motion?"

"Some things work forwards but not backwards."

"Its that a double entendre?"

"Would you like it to be?" he asked, almost innocently. She opened her mouth, but he shook his head. "Watch, watch this." He picked up his foot, and tucked it securely behind his head. "Can't do it with the other one, but a lopsided contortionist is better than no contortionist at all."

If he was trying to change the subject, it worked. This was genuine laughter, this time, untinged by any wayward thoughts of shared bedtime. He grinned at her, that brilliant smile, warm enough to heat your hands on, make your tea by.

"Good stuff, books. Fantastic idea, bedtime story." He patted her leg, above her knee, squeezed it lightly, and swung off her bed. "Next time, I get to pick the book. Not that picture books aren't entertaining. But I'm thinking Kama Sutra."

He walked blithely out of her room, not quite shutting the door to, leaving it just a bit ajar so a shaft of light shone in from the corridor. She caught a glimpse of a self-satisfied smile as he made his way along.

She shook her head, and smirked, and tingled. She had to lean so far over the edge of the bed to retrieve the book, she nearly fell out of it, but there was no question of leaving it there on her floor.

Ignoring the bit of her that felt silly and childish, she tucked it under her pillow, tucked her head into the hollow he'd left the pillow, felt the warmth, covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile. She went to sleep facing the door, light in her eyes.