Chapter 1

Author's Note: Several people requested a follow-up to My Beloved Is Unto Me, and once I had worked my Doctor/Rose historical fiction piece (The Lily and the Wolf)out of my system, my thoughts turned back to this story. It's probably a good idea to read My Beloved first, but not absolutely necessary. Both titles come from The Song of Songs in the King James translation. Throughout this story section breaks are shown by two bold-faced words.

Rose Tyler stifled a yawn and leaned her head against the door frame of her living room. She raised a hand to rub the remains of sleep from her eyes as she considered the scene in front of her.

It happened often, when she awoke alone in their bed, that she experienced a terrifying few seconds of believing it was a dream. Even all these months later, the dimension cannon, the return to this universe, the painful days of edging toward each other…it had the seductive arc of a fantasy. She would grip the sheets, praying with all her might to no god in particular that it was real, that her brain had not tricked her with such cruel comfort. Then her eyes would focus on something–a pair of pants he had discarded the night before, a book he was reading lying open on the bedside table, a dark hair on the pillow next to hers–and she would begin to breathe again.

She found it hard to get used to the roiling of her emotions. Ever since their return from Norway three months ago, she felt tossed this way and that, from panic to a happiness so intense it made her throat burn. She had survived here during the years without him by schooling herself into a pragmatic, chilly focus on her work that kept her emotions firmly in check. Oh, she had had fun with Mickey, Jake, and Geoff, and she had enjoyed her family, particularly the simple pleasure of playing with little Tony. But it had been within a controlled range. She had let go the most with Mickey, but even that was complicated. To talk about her broken heart and her loss of the Doctor could not help but hurt Mickey–he had, after all, had his own heart broken by her because of the Doctor. Not that he would have ever stopped her from talking; the restraint came from her side.

Now the restraints were off. She and her new new new Doctor had cried and laughed, screamed and hollered like characters in a soap opera. Over the loss of the TARDIS, of Mickey and Donna, of the other him. Over the gain of each other. It was breathtaking, quite literally.

Her lips curling with pleasure, she contemplated him. He sat at his desk, which faced a large window in one corner of their living room. It was still absurdly early, particularly for a Saturday–the wan winter sun had barely begun to illuminate the room–and he had his desk lamp on, against whose light he was silhouetted. He wore only his pajama bottoms, and he was perched on the edge of his chair, his long legs tucked up under him in what looked to Rose like a distinctly uncomfortable position. He was hunched over papers on his desktop, chewing on the end of a pen that he held in his hand. A green pen, she saw, so she knew he must be marking papers. Probably lab reports, given that next to his chair was a stack of the binders in which he insisted his pupils keep their notes on labs from throughout the year.

Her eyes traveled along his form and she felt her heart rate increase. His hair was vertical, truly gravity-defying. A combination of bed-head and running his hands through it in frustration as he graded, no doubt. She bit her lip, suppressing a giggle as she remembered a visit to her parents' home two weeks ago when Tony had been blowing bubbles. Unbeknownst to the Doctor, a large number of the bubbles had attached themselves to the tips of his hair, giving him the appearance of an excitable Christmas ornament.

He moved his glasses up his nose, bringing her back to the present. She gazed at the long fingers that scratched the nape of his neck, at the lean length of his back, at the two dimples at the base of his spine, just above his waistband…and that did it. It always did. She moved toward him. She swung a leg over the chair and slid in behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest and curving her front into the graceful arch of his back. She said nothing, merely held on, feeling her heart race from desire and a remnant of her former panic. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to steady herself with the feel of his skin, the smell of him. She began to relax and felt like she might even be able to doze right there, as long as she didn't have to let him go.

After a few minutes, he said, "Rose?"

"Hmm?"

"I was hoping to finish these. Then I'll have no more work for the weekend."

She straightened, dropping her arms. "Sorry."

He twisted around in the chair as best he could and smiled at her. "Don't be sorry." He touched his forehead to hers briefly. "It's still early. Why not go back to bed? I'll wake you when I'm done."

"Okay." She extracted herself from the chair somewhat gracelessly, hopping on one foot to pull her leg back over the seat. He chuckled and reached out to grasp her hand and steady her. She smiled at him and turned to go.

"Rose?" She turned back. He was gazing at her, his eyes dark behind his spectacles. "I'll make it up to you. And then we'll have the whole weekend."

"Okay," she repeated.

Retreating to the bedroom, she crawled back into bed, settling herself on her side and wrapping her arms around a pillow. It was not a rejection, she knew that, in her mind at least. Her heart, however, always felt so raw. He was so…collected most of the time, and she felt like an open wound, like exactly the sort of love-struck girl she had always disdained back in school. She tried to keep this under control; clinginess and neediness were hardly attractive qualities, after all. She knew that much of her fear that he did not feel the same for her was rooted in the time when she was a teenager traveling with an alien, quivering with admiration and love and desire for him, in both his bodies. Her new, part-human Doctor had been the one to tell her that the Time Lord had not been rejecting her by not responding to her pitifully obvious crush–rather, she learned, he simply had not required physical love as part of his makeup. This explained so much, and had been such a relief, but the sense of inadequacy and the destabilizing effects of unrequited passion ran deep.

Unbidden, a memory came of Shireen saying earnestly to her–probably about Jimmy Stone, heaven help her–"You've got to be cool, Rose. You have to pretend you don't give a toss about him." She couldn't help but smile. She had crossed universes, but would she ever really, truly, grow up?

She must have fallen asleep; the proof being that she now found herself drifting awake to the feel of his mouth on her neck. His body pressed against hers, in a mirror image of the way she had been draped over him on the chair. She heard him whisper, "Rose. Wake up."

"Did you finish marking the labs?"

"Yes." He sucked hard and she groaned.

"Did they do well?"

"Do you really want to talk about my students' lab reports?" He slid his hands under her pajama top and found her breasts. She closed her eyes, drowning in sensation, and did not answer him.

Suddenly his hands vanished and he rolled her on her back, slowly worked her knickers off, and then crawled up to lay on top of her, his mouth seeking hers.

"Mmm." She twisted her head to avoid him, causing his lips to make contact with her jawline. "I have morning breath."

"Me too. Don't care."

She demurred, pressing her face to his shoulder. "Really, Doctor. Let me brush my…"

"Rose." His tone was serious, stopping her short, and she met his eyes. The intensity there made her gasp. Once he was sure he had her attention, he said, "I need you. Now. And I don't give a damn about your breath."

She nodded. As he slid inside her, he gasped, "Oh…I love you." She clung to him and stayed silent, tears of love and relief trickling from the corners of her eyes.

Later, he lay with his head pillowed on her stomach, his hand running idly over the scars on her legs. Suddenly he said, "I wish…" She waited, but he did not continue.

"What do you wish?"

He squeezed her hip. "Never mind. What do you want to do today?"

She regarded the top of his head for a long moment, but he did not turn to meet her eyes, so she answered. "It's supposed to be cold, so I'd say something indoors." He made a discontented noise, and she smiled. "Why, do you have energy to burn?"

"My job is not as physical as yours, Rose. I don't get to run around all day."

"Doesn't sound so bad to me." She rotated her shoulder experimentally; it had pretty much healed, but she had dislocated it ten days ago, tumbling down a staircase during a mission with Jake, and it still ached occasionally.

"Okay, how about a compromise?" He outlined a route for a walk. It sounded infernally long to Rose, especially on a cold day, but he headed off her objections by telling her that he had made reservations for lunch at a gastropub she had been wanting to visit, conveniently located at the end of his proposed outing. She relented.

"I should have known that when you asked me you already had a plan in mind," she grumbled, but with a small smile.

He grinned back at her. "Yes, you should have."

She sat up, pushing him off her. "I'll shower, then."

He watched her as she disappeared into the bathroom. "Dress warmly," he called, but he wasn't certain that she heard him.

He had known she was there, of course. Not all his Time Lord senses had survived the metacrisis, but his hearing was superb. His eyesight, unfortunately, was not–no longer were the specs just for show, for looking authoritative and scholarly. His hearing was different, however. He had heard the almost imperceptible sound of her feet on the carpet as she came to stand in the living room doorway, and he had smiled to himself, knowing that he was being ogled. It was possible, just possible, that he had decided not to put a shirt on this morning in anticipation of the moment when she came wandering in looking for him. One of his great goals in his new life was to tempt Rose Tyler into bad behavior. But he hadn't expected her to be up so early. He still had ten lab reports to get through, and he wanted to finish them so he could focus on her. It had been a difficult week. She had been grumpy about the pain in her shoulder and the sling she had had to wear the first few days after the injury. He had been worried for her but trying not to smother her, as well as frustrated by matters at work–administrative meetings he could barely tolerate and the fact that his students were having trouble settling back into a rhythm after their winter holidays.

Lost in his thoughts, he had not noticed that she had moved from the doorway until she slid into the chair behind him, pressing into him. He felt her breasts against his back and her hands on his chest, her fingertips gently circling. He immediately began to harden and he shut his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He really didn't want this work hanging over him. If he could have another half hour, the weekend would be theirs.

When he told her this, he felt her draw into herself, emotionally as well as physically, and he felt a stab of regret mixed with annoyance. He felt so often that he had to walk on eggshells around her, trying not to make her think he was rejecting her. He knew why, knew that it wasn't her fault, but he wished so dearly that they could get past the layers of hurt and resentment left over from her relationship with his former self, and from the scene at Bad Wolf Bay. When would a simple request, such as asking for a half hour's time to finish work, no longer be interpreted as a statement loaded with meaning?

After she returned to bed he finished the reports as quickly as he could and went in to find her. She had fallen asleep. As he looked down at her, her face peaceful, her body wrapped around a pillow, her top leg drawn up almost to her chest, he felt his heart clench with love. She wore only a pajama top and knickers, and the scars on her legs stood out clearly in the morning light. How could he blame her for her fear, when she had been through so much? He resolved once again simply to wait, to keep on loving her until she knew it, really believed it bone-deep. Her anxiety would ebb, he told himself, given enough time.

After lunch he persuaded her to walk home as well, although he set a much slower pace than he had on the way out. The lunch had been leisurely and a bit boozy, and now it was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. They took the river walk, strolling with their arms around each other, silent but intent on the embrace. He felt remarkably contented, having pushed from his mind his earlier concerns. He inhaled deeply, smelling her shampoo faintly below the crisp air that blew along the Thames. She snuffled slightly because of the cold and buried her face for a moment in his shoulder. "I love you," she whispered, and when he looked at her, her eyes contained a look of promise that made him hopeful for a most pleasant return home. He opened his mouth to answer her, but at that moment her mobile rang. She pulled a face but disengaged herself from him, muttering, "That's Jake's ringtone, sorry…" She fished the phone out of her inner coat pocket and answered. "Jakey, it's Saturday."

He watched her intently for a few moments as she walked toward the railing overlooking the river, then turned to lean against it, tipping her head back to stare at the sky as she listened to what was obviously a long story from her partner. He saw the corners of her mouth begin to curl and her eyes show unmistakable sparks of interest. He felt his own jaw tighten, then forced it to relax. It was good that she loved her work, and certainly a good thing for Britain and for the Earth that she was doing it. But, if he admitted the absolute truth, he was a bit jealous of the excitement of her job and of the way it consumed her focus. It also scared him that the label "jeopardy-friendly" clearly still applied to her; although she had modified her behavior a great deal since he arrived, she still had a habit of flinging herself into a situation before assessing it fully, of taking risks herself before letting her team step in. He supposed that he was at least partially to blame for that. As she had once said, who had taught her to be first through the door? But the fragility of these human bodies frightened him. As unpleasant as regeneration could be, it was an insurance policy. No such thing existed now.

His assessment of the situation was precisely accurate. Rose was listening to Jake outline a fascinating call that had come in from the south of England. "Unexplained happenings, Rosie," he began with glee. She felt the familiar jolt of adrenaline as she heard the first details of the case. But then her eyes strayed to the Doctor, standing a few meters away, staring out over the river. There was obvious tension in his form, and she remembered that he had cleared his weekend of work to spend it with her. She looked at his profile, at the crinkles around his eyes where he squinted into the distance. She considered the line of his body, how he stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his peacoat, a striped scarf around his neck and a grey wool knit cap on his head. A lock of brown hair had escaped onto his forehead and was being ruffled by the breeze. Abruptly she spoke, interrupting Jake in mid-sentence. "Jakey, love, you know I'm off this weekend."

The Doctor turned his head at her words, looking at her with an inquiring lift of an eyebrow. She grinned back at him, tongue between teeth, and was rewarded with a flash of heat in his eyes. She said, "No, really, I mean it. Yes. Take Geoff. You can brief me Monday. Mmm-hmmm. Bye."

She clicked the phone off and reached out for him, entwining her arm through his again and turning him toward home.

"Interesting case?"

"Seems so."

"Why didn't you go?"

She snuggled into him without looking up. When she spoke her voice was full of mischief. "Actually, there was also a sighting of a unique, alien-human metacrisis right here on the Thames."

He felt warmth bloom in his chest. "Is that so?"

"Yep. I told Jake I would look into it. Make a detailed report."

He spun her fully into his arms, backing her into the railing and kissing her. She made a contented sound in her throat and slid her hands up under his coat and then down into the back pockets of his jeans, pulling him closer. They held each other tightly for a few moments, and then she whispered, so low he barely heard her, "There are times when…I don't want to be anywhere but with you. No matter how interesting the case. I feel like…" She stopped and he saw her blush and shake her head slightly.

"Rose." He lifted her chin and made her look at him. "It's exactly the same for me."

She stared at him for a long moment and then nodded. "Let's go home."