a/n: Very adult and very dark. Slight spoilers for Prisoner of the Daleks by Trevor Baxendale.

Part 2

His song was ending. That phrase had been following him for years. But now he could feel the storm approaching, the noose around his neck tightening. His time truly was growing short. Time Lords could spend thousands of years in one regeneration, and he had had less than six in this one. Not to mention this incarnation had been created out of love for her, and if he regenerated he'd lose that ever so tenuous connection.

But he didn't know if the prophesy meant that this regeneration was ending or his entire life. Either way, he wasn't ready.

But at other times he wasn't sure he cared. He had lost so much. Sometimes he just wanted the pain to be over. He was becoming more and more reckless, even for him, pushing himself into more and more dangerous situations, daring, almost begging someone to put himself out of his misery. He needed someone to pull him back from the edge, but there was no one: not Mickey, not Martha, not Jack. Not Donna. And not Rose. Especially not Rose.

He needed Rose. From the very first, Rose had trusted him, had believed in him. Had stood up to him when he was wrong. Had promised to stay with him forever. Had loved him unconditionally. Oh, how he needed her.

Particularly on a day like today, when yet again he had almost lost the TARDIS. When yet again he had encountered Daleks. People had been killed. He had been imprisoned and tortured. And yet no matter how many times they were defeated, the Daleks always managed to survive. Always came back.

Oh, why couldn't they stay dead? Why were they still there when his planet was gone, when Rose was gone?

He ran his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth in the console room. The elation he had felt upon surviving, upon finding the TARDIS again had vanished, had disappeared as the adrenalin had begun to leave his system. Now he was left feeling restless, bereft. And alone.

He needed a distraction, he decided, and crossed to the console. Time to go someplace new. Somewhere he had never been before. He began flipping switches–and then stopped.

No, he thought as he sank down onto the jump seat. That's not what he needed.

But what he needed was wrong.

But that had never stopped him before. And he knew it wouldn't now.

With a sense of inevitability, he stood and began to walk out of the room, jerking his tie off as he went.

Once in his room, he removed his jacket and shirt, folding them neatly and laying them along with his tie across the back of a chair. Trainers next, and then his trousers, again folded neatly. Socks and tee shirt in a hamper in the en suite. His pants were next.

Tented as they were, they were more difficult to remove. He was already more than half hard in anticipation. When he realized they were already damp with a spot of pre-come, he finally jerked them off and tossed them carelessly on the floor.

He crossed to his bed and, in what had become almost a ritual, he carefully folded the duvet back. He began to climb into bed, and then stopped himself. Today he needed one more thing.

He pulled open the bottom drawer of his nightstand. That was his Rose drawer. He still had her bedroom, even visited it on occasion, well, more than just on occasion, but here were the items he wanted closest to him. On top was a photo album, filled with photos she had taken on trips from their earliest days together. But there was one she hadn't taken. He quickly leafed through the album and pulled it out.

It was a photo taken by Jack of Rose lying on the beach, sunbathing. Her body glistened with suntan lotion, and in the bright light of the sun, her dark cream bikini blended in with the color of her skin, making her appear nude. As soon as he had found out about it, his previous self had immediately confiscated it, but he had kept it next to his bed ever since.

As he stared at it, his breath caught and his eyes glistened. She was so beautiful.

But the photo wasn't what he was looking for.

He placed the album on the nightstand, and the photo on top of it, and then began to search the drawer again, only stopping when he felt the soft scrap of cotton under his fingertips.

He shouldn't have this. What would Rose think if she knew he had retrieved her laundry from Jackie's flat and kept this, of all things, in his bedroom?

He felt a wave of shame and disgust which he quickly shoved down and ignored as he held the cloth to his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The sense of smell, far more than the other senses, was the most closely linked to memory, and this, the most personal of items, smelled of Rose far more than her jacket or tee shirt did, items he also kept in the drawer.

The scent of Rose surrounding him, he lay down on the bed and inhaled again, this time with his mouth slightly open and tongue curled to the back of his teeth in an effort to heighten his senses.

He was struck by a sudden impulse to rub her knickers on his impossibly hard cock, an impulse he knew he had to fight. If he did that, he'd replace her scent with his own. No, he couldn't risk that. But he couldn't stop his tongue from darting out for the tiniest taste. And with that, he took himself in hand and put himself in a telepathic trance.

She lay spread out in front of him, her skin flushed pink with arousal and her blonde hair spread across her pillow, while he lay on his belly between her legs, placing open mouthed kisses up the inside of her thigh.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, taking a moment to caress it with his lips.

He kissed his way upward. As he stopped a moment to place a kiss on her outer lips, he looked up and their eyes met. There was something in the way she looked at him... and for a second he wondered if she could see him in the eyes of his duplicate. But then she closed her eyes and her head fell backwards and the moment was lost.

He shifted so her leg draped over his shoulder, opening her more fully to him, and he ran his tongue up her slit. She clutched at the sheets and moaned, and he moaned with her at the explosion of her taste on his tongue. It was salty and sweet and warm and gloriously Rose. It was addicting. Nothing was like this. Nothing in the universe, any universe, could compare to this.

Why had they never done this before?

He felt a flash of confusion pass through the other Doctor's mind, and he quickly tamped down his thoughts. Of course the other him and Rose had already done this, and by allowing his own thoughts to intrude into the other's mind, he risked being caught. It was vital that he not be discovered spying on them.

After a moment he felt the other relax, and he gave himself over to the sensations the other was experiencing. The feel of her curls on his lips as he pressed a kiss gently onto her mound. The softness and taste as he circled her inner lips with his tongue only to bury it deep inside her.

"Oh, God," she murmured and the sound of her voice went straight to his groin. He thrust his hips forward against the mattress for a little relief.

She lifted her hips upwards, allowing him greater access, but to his disappointment, instead of taking advantage of it his counterpart began to back away. Rose whimpered in protest. He almost objected as well–he wasn't nearly done exploring her with his mouth–and then he caught himself; he wasn't supposed to be here. But then to his relief he found that the other Doctor was just trying to readjust his position, to lean on one elbow, allowing his other hand the freedom to caress her.

He trailed his fingers along the path his lips had taken, softly touching inner thigh before moving to cup the firm curve of her arse. He paused there, stroking and gently squeezing before moving on, this time to circle her opening with his fingers before dipping one inside. When he didn't continue she shifted impatiently.

"Doctor, please," she pleaded, and he felt his mouth twist into a smirk.

Slowly he pressed deeper into her opening, withdrew and pressed again, stroking her inner walls, first gently and then more firmly with each pass. She nodded and sighed. With that encouragement, he added a second finger, slowly stretching her and moving slightly faster.

As her breathing quickened, he lowered his head again and, replacing his hand with his mouth, began to kiss her in earnest. He traced her opening with the tip of his tongue, feeling a fresh rush of lust at the flavor of her. He took his time, savoring the experience, licking and sucking, his tongue dipping inside her and then darting out again to tease her clit. She jerked forward, pressing into his mouth, and he moved his hand to her hips, holding her down while he continued. When she stilled, he moved his hand downwards again, stroking her with his fingers while his mouth surrounded her clit, gently sucking on her sensitive flesh.

"Yes," she panted.

As her muscles tightened around his moving fingers, she wrapped her legs around him, and he sped up, licking and sucking, rubbing and curling on her inner walls, rutting against the mattress in time with his mouth and fingers. She cried out as she came and, unable to wait any longer, he instantly moved upward, thrusting into her once, twice, coming himself before the tremors had completely left her body.

With that, the Doctor quickly broke away from them, finding himself in his own bedroom, panting, hearts pounding, his hand moving, gripping, tightening, until he cried out with his own release, his voice echoing in the empty TARDIS.

And when he came back to himself, he swore he would never do it again.

Knowing full well he was lying.