This was written for the first prompt of the second challenge at doctor_rose_las, and I fully admit that it's not really up to my usual standard. I was actually tempted to use my pass when I saw the prompts, but decided not to when I figured I would probably need them more later on in the LAS and reminded myself that I signed up to force myself to write, since the muse was on vacation and seemed to have left her smoking habit behind. I got one negative vote, but I somehow made it to the next round in spite of that... and since I never got the email with what the vote said as feedback, I'm really rather curious. CC is most definitely encouraged.
~.o0o.~
It was instinct. At least, that seemed to be the only word that fit, in spite of the fact that he knew base things like 'instinct' had been beaten out of his father's people in Rassilon's time (along with fun, and passion, and spontaneity, and all the other things which he found so fascinating in the lower races, especially humanity, current denial about his mother aside).
But with her, with this, it seemed natural. It was the very first thing they had ever done, this grasping of hands, and now the day didn't feel right if he had not touched her, had not slipped his fingers through hers at least once. Skin-hunger, the psychologists of her time called it.
It didn't seem particularly fair, to his mind. In the same moments that he wrestled with the dull ache of an empty head, he now found himself fighting the base need for physical contact with her. It was a temptation, a distraction, an anomaly; a break from every other relationship he had had since the day his granddaughter helped him steal the TARDIS over 900 years before.
And it disturbed him that he wouldn't have it any other way.
