A/N: Written for Then There's Us Challenge 93. All reviews, good or bad, are welcome.
From the time she was thirteen, for the first time realizing the delicious possibilities of sex from the whispers of her more brazen friends around the Estate and the forbidden books her mother swore belonged to clients, Rose Tyler had dreamed of a special lover. With no distinct features in mind to fuel her fantasies, she'd imagine his arms wrapped around hers, their sweaty bodies pressed so closely together that it was impossible to tell where one ended and one began. For her, it was not the act that drew her, quite the opposite, really; despite the assurances that it was an exhilarating experience, there was little appeal in the carnal descriptions of frantic love making she'd read about. Rather, it was the aftermath, the feeling of comfort, of love, lying tangled in the cool satin sheets (and, growing up with cheap cotton, it was always satin in her dreams).
Often, at night, she'd pull her pillow beside her, and maneuver her arm so that it wrapped around her back, stroking herself innocently and pretending it was her strong, passionate lover, that imaginary man who would take her away and worship her. Back then, she was still young and silly and believed in fantasies like that. A few years later, when the stars had left her eyes and she knew more of life, she would try and force herself to let go of that childish hope. Even later, she would find that sometimes, just sometimes, things like that do happen.
When she was fifteen, she'd jumped readily enough into bed with Jimmy Stone, just for a taste of that fantastic aftermath. Of course, the first time was a blur of frantic thrusts and animalistic grunts, and in the aftermath, he'd gone off with his mates to catch a game at the pub, leaving her alone to clean up the remnants of her innocent dreams. Even later, when she'd given up everything for him in a fit of teenage rebellion, he'd always push her away, dismissed her childish desire to "cuddle," as he so deemed her actions after.
Besides, when one's partner was focused solely on himself, it was actually quite difficult to lie in a sated haze afterwards; more often than not, Rose would find herself scooting away from her sleeping bed mate and tossing and turning in frustration.
After that first time, she stopped dreaming, or tried to, at least. The funny thing about dreams, though, is their irrational persistence. She hated that, hated carrying around the optimism that things would be different for her one day. By the time her mess of a relationship was over, at the grand old age of seventeen, she found herself a bitter expert on what to expect out of her lot in life. Accept that her faceless lover was not some special man who held all the answers to her troubles, accept that she would never lie in a bed of silk or satin, accept that people like her were not made for passionate love affairs with passionate men who would hold her tight and gently caress her and whisper words of love in the dark.
Accept what was, she thought, and be happy. Be content. Except, as long as she kept dreaming of those moments, tangled in that bed of silk, she wasn't content, couldn't be content.
That, Rose always thought, was the biggest impediment to her happiness with Mickey. He was good, and sweet, and if he maybe loved her more than she loved him, well, after Jimmy she was okay with that. After all, she told herself as the smoke cleared and she finally saw that behind those romantic stories her friends told was an entirely different truth, wasn't that as much as any girl could ask?
And, to his credit, Mickey did try. When she once drunkenly admitted her secret fantasies to him, he did begin making attempts to satisfy her desires to be held and loved. All it did, however, was teach her that it wasn't just the act of being held by her lover, but the mysterious lover himself. In her dreams, he was always cool, the sheets were always cool and crisp, and she was certain there was never the smell of sweat and rot permeating the room.
Reality was quite different, as it turned out. If Jimmy's cold dismissal didn't completely destroy any hope Rose had of fulfilling that particular dream, Mickey's awkward attempts certainly did.
In another time, another place, another story, this may well have been the end of it. For most, good is more than enough. Save some miraculous intervention, people settle on good and safe. And so Rose would have, too, had her life not been miraculously disrupted by a mad man in a blue box.
Some days, she can't really believe that any of it happened. The aliens, the Doctor, the TARDIS.
It always seemed to Rose that as she grew older, she would grow wiser, and she would grow further away from her dreams. But things have changed; he's changed, younger, less afraid of her, of what she can offer, and tonight, she lies in bed, next to the Doctor, next to the most important creature in existence, and it's her that his arms are wrapped around, her that he's looking at. Rose Tyler, girl from the Estates, with nothing going for her, who came from nothing, has finally fulfilled that vision in her mind with the alien with the crazy hair and the sad eyes and the magic box.
She wonders if the other people in the inn realize just how amazing her Doctor is, and how thrilling her life has become. Probably not; they've stopped only because, well, she's not entirely certain. Something about a strange signal and roughing it and some other rubbish that she's pretty certain all adds up to his having lost track of the TARDIS again. So tonight, it's not his bed, with the dark, silky alien sheets and the crisp pillows, but rather a borrowed bed, garishly decorated, fairly uncomfortable. She once thought all of that mattered, but as it turns out, it doesn't. Because he is there, and though her eyes are closed and her head is nestled on his chest, she knows he's looking at her with that strange, focused gaze, that look that's more romantic than any smile or leer she's ever received.
It's both everything and nothing like she dreamed it would be. They don't lie together like this every night; sometimes, she doesn't want to. Other times, he gets restless, and she lets him go, doesn't try to keep him close by while she drifts off to sleep. It's these rare moments, when everything is still and perfect that she treasures for their novelty. She imagines it wouldn't be so wonderful, were they like this every time they made love. Then again, maybe it would. Things with the Doctor are always surprising.
He doesn't whisper sweet nothings or dirty suggestions that leave them both breathless with lust. Nor does he whisper things in his own language, as she imagined he might. Really, he doesn't say much at all, those nights when he lies beside her and holds her. He never says that he loves her, needs her. But then again, neither does she. Rose doesn't allow herself to consider what this means, if it means anything at all. On her part, she allows her actions to express her feelings. Her love and need is present in her kisses, her touch. She allows her hand to softly caress his bare chest. I love you, it says. He shifts; his lips brush the top of her head.
I know. Or maybe, I love you, too.
She doesn't know what he thinks, or if this perpetual dream can last. But that doesn't matter. Tonight, the air around them is still and his skin is cool and his touch is soft. She is tangled in his arms, her dreams have come true, and she is content.