A/N: I don't know. Don't ask. Bunch of dancing metaphors for sex. I tried to make it sound pretty but I don't think it worked. Oh well. Hope you enjoy?
"You just assume I'm…"
"What?"
"You just assume that I don't… dance."
"What, are you telling me you do dance?"
"Nine hundred years old, me. I've been around a bit. I think you can assume that at some point I've danced."
"You?"
"Problem?"
"Doesn't the universe implode or something if you… dance?"
"Well, I've got the moves, but I wouldn't wanna boast."
"You've got the moves? Show me your moves."
"Rose, I'm trying to resonate concrete…"
"Jack'll be back, he'll get us out. So, come on—the world doesn't end 'cause the Doctor dances."
And as they're together, finally together, it is the most beautiful duet this universe has ever seen. Leaps and bounds from when they first met, from when they first danced—or did that even count? Tonight, they plié and the world spins and it's anything but graceful, but it's theirs. Their choreography, made up of their music and their history and their love—it all adds up to the dance. First, second, third, fourth, fifth positions, and repeat. They thrust en pointe and years of training couldn't have prepared her for this. He is the ultimate teacher, and this is the recital, adagio and staccato and the piano duet plays in their heads. As she arches her back, she is his swan queen and he is her prince and they rescue each other and twirl and hold and they dance and dance and dance and the universe doesn't implode.