A/N: This story assumes that the metacrisis event happened to the Ninth Doctor, not the Tenth, so Rose is in Pete's World with a duplicate of the Ninth Doctor.
She's soaked, head to toe, by the time he finds her, perched on a rock at the top of a hill. The water's up to his ankles at the bottom - while this isn't the worststorm he's ever seen, it's definitely in the top three.
Her hair is plastered to her cheeks, gone dark from the rain, elbows resting on her knees and sitting forwards like some delicate fairy creature perched on a rock. It's always been Rose's way, to fit in anywhere she goes, from alien markets to parallel universes - it's a trait he wishes he shared.
He doesn't know how not to stick out like a sore thumb, here. It's all so human, and sometimes his throat gets thick with the rhythm of it all, thump-thump-thumping on to the end. He's lost count of the number of times she's had to apologize for him because he can't, he can't do it, eat beans on toast and watch telly and go to work like a good little ape. She is the fulcrum he turns around, and up until a few moments ago, he thought he'd lost her.
He takes a few deep breaths, allows his single heart to trip back into a steady beat. If he speaks now, he won't be able to do anything but shout, and that's the last thing they need, right now, after everything that's changed. For the moment he just soaks her in, traces the raindrops slipping down her fingertips, the way her left foot never quite stays still, the way her hair curls when it gets wet.
After a moment he goes and sits down next to her, drops his coat around her shoulders for good measure. She doesn't seem surprised, and he doesn't ask, only lets the silence stand between them for moment. She doesn't say anything.
"I was worried."
"Coulda fooled me."
Ah. Still angry, then.
"Rose -"
"Don't Rose me. You don't get to accuse me of, of -"
He hears her voice break in the back of her throat a beat before she stops talking, turning her head away. In his overlarge jacket all her movements are exaggerated, and the shaking of her shoulders causes something to bend and snap inside him. Oceans could boil, stars could wink out, and he's got a setting for that on the screwdriver, but Rose's tears stop him cold. He needs, down at the very core of him, to fix it, but he doesn't know how.
He flashes back to their first argument in a dingy estate flat, her father listening on while he demands his TARDIS key. He'd said things he hadn't meant then, too.
"Of course I wish things were different," she manages after a moment. "S'not so bad, is it, wishin' that there wasn't a you out there all on his own? God, I can't even - " thunder crashed, so loudly the ground beneath them vibrated. " - could you think that the TARDIS is all I wanted?"
He holds his hands out, palms up, in supplication.
"S'you, it's both you, and I'm sad, Doctor. Sad an' worried and it's only been a week, and lessee how well you do when the person you love is standin there and there's two of 'im and you've gotta make a choice."
Her face flushes bright red; she seems to realize what she's said a moment after she's said it. Since that day on the beach she hasn't kissed him, and he hasn't kissed her - not for lack of wanting, mind, but for the fact that she seemed in mourning. Now it seems so stupid that he hasn't done.
"Rose -"
"I'm always gonna be worried about 'im," she says, and finally, finally her tiny head is laying against his shoulder, and he can't help but turn just a bit and slip an arm around her waist. "But I'm not always gonna be sad. You've just got to - let me be, sometimes."
He can feel the fight going out of her, and they really ought to get indoors - but he's spent so much time searching for her in the storm, for fear he'd lost her in more than one way, and the feel of her hip-to-hip with her head tucked under his chin is too nice to relinquish, just yet. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, her forehead. Her eyelids, as they flutter shut. The tip of her nose.
"All yours, me," he says, voice rough. "Every me that's ever been, Rose Tyler. I just -" his eyes flicker down. "Can't give you the stars, anymore."
"Got you," she says, nuzzling his cheek. "Don't need 'em."
Then it's her lips, just a peck. Then another, slightly longer, gently sucking the raindrops off her bottom lip. And then he sets his mouth against hers, hard, and he's pulling her into his lap and her tongue is prising his lips apart and oh, precious girl, let me show you. Let me show you how much.
The next hour is about a girl in a shop, about it's gotta be students and I've got the bronze. It's about better with two and a first date and chips with vinegar and painting her neck with kisses the way he'd wanted to on a cold night that wasn't in Naples. It's about laying her in the grass, about hearing soft little mewling noises as the rain hits her skin in time with the strokes of his tongue.
It's about her knee working it's way between his legs, and the way his hands fist in the grass when she nudges gently against him, and his hips thrusting of their own accord, just to get some relief. Then it's all wet jeans and stubborn sneakers and finally, finally her legs wrapped around his waist, all about his fingers nearly bruising her hips, about fuck, more and a clap of thunder drowning out his shout as he comes undone, just for her.