~ 0 ~

~ Chapter 7: Anytime ~

~ 0 ~

A/N:- I don't own anything Doctor Who related. I wish I owned David Tennant, I would totally check out his no doubt mad skills.

Thank you to CertainShadesOfBlue for helping me whip this baby into shape. She beta'd. I meddled.

Any mistakes that remain are mine.

~ 0 ~

The Doctor woke in the early hours of the morning with a strange feeling running down his arm. It was, in fact, a very similar feeling to the one he'd experienced after absorbing the Roentgen radiation at the Royal Hope Hospital with Martha watching on. Somewhere deep in his mind he recalled that he shouldn't be thinking of Martha at that particular point in time, but he couldn't recall precisely why. His arm drew his attention again. He wasn't entirely sure human arms were supposed to get the feeling of syphoning radiation through a limb, so he wasn't exactly sure why he had it: a prickling, aching, itching, numb sort of feeling.

He tried to move his arm, thinking that if he could examine it, he could perhaps figure out the reason for the dull, prickling ache, only to realise it was pinned down underneath something. Something warm. A soft, whispering breath blew rhythmically across his chest. His naked chest. Things were starting to become clearer, but he didn't dare to believe that he was correct in his assumption.

He tilted his head slightly and smiled when he saw Rose's blonde hair falling in a cascade over his arm and across her face. The location of her head, nestled tightly into his shoulder, seemed to go some way toward explaining the feeling in his arm. Now that he'd worked out the reason for his discomfort, it was easier to ignore. He wasn't willing to move her when she was sleeping so peacefully.

He began a silent appraisal of his body, trying to catalogue the various feelings. He realised he wasn't quite naked anymore, he must have cleaned himself up and pulled his boxer shorts on at some point during the night. His left arm tingled from where Rose's head rested, cutting off the circulation. His body ached slightly, but it wasn't so terrible that he wouldn't do that again. His heart felt like it had swollen to twice its original size—her whispered admission being a significant factor. He wondered what it would mean for the two of them, moving forward. He was in her bed for the night, but was that only because they'd fallen asleep together? Would he be relegated to his own room upon her waking?

His mind began to turn over the complications they were sure to face. He was terrified, and his heart began to race. Could he make this work? He wanted to, so badly, but what if he did something wrong? He didn't want to lose her. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself until Rose woke and he could address his questions, concerns and, if he was honest with himself, fears with her.

He rested his cheek against the top of Rose's hair. Suddenly, just having her lying on top of him sleeping wasn't enough closeness. Just thinking about the possibility of not having her in his life made his throat constrict and he wanted to hold her tightly and never let her go. He twisted his body so it was aligned with hers and wrapped his arms around her. She murmured his name softly in her sleep, and he clutched her to him.

Their new position, with her body aligned along his, allowed him to feel every inch of her naked skin. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her breath tickled his throat. He stroked his hand languidly up and down her back, not really awake but not quite asleep.

Rose gave a throaty moan and pushed her body against his fingers, stretching unconsciously into his grasp. It was all the motivation his body needed to spring to life. He involuntarily released a soft groan as his hands found their way to her hips, and he pulled her against him.

She shivered slightly and moaned again. He shifted slightly to plant soft kisses onto her cheek, then her lips. The instant his mouth found hers, she sleepily met his tongue with her own and began grinding softly against him. Now fully awake, the Doctor twisted their entwined body so that his hips were anchoring her against the bed. He pushed his upper body away from hers and exclaimed softly at the perfection beneath him.

His lips met her skin and consumed hungrily, tiny kisses peppered across her collarbone and down onto her breasts. He took her perfect little buds between his teeth and gave them a gentle tug. Rose pushed her hips up toward his, and her eyes blinked open.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

She grinned widely. "Very good."

She found the only barrier between them, the soft satin of his boxer shorts, and pushed it away, freeing his body so they could lie skin to skin. He pushed against her naked body, once again amazed at how perfectly he just fit into all of her curves. It was almost as if he was made with her in mind—specifically shaped to mould together perfectly. He refused to consider the fact that this was possibly true of men and women in general; as far as he was concerned, it was a wonderful anomaly meant for just the two of them to experience.

He caressed her skin with his mouth as his body rubbed delicately against hers, his lips finding her cheek, her ear, the column of her throat. He licked and sucked, nipped and nibbled. He wanted to taste every part of her and devour her essence.

Rose scrapped her fingernails down his bare back, and the Doctor noted that it wasn't nearly as painful as he might have once thought. In fact, it was a rather pleasurable experience. Her legs wrapped around his, and he marvelled once more at how perfectly matched they were. At least he did until he was utterly unable to concentrate on anything other than how soft her skin was and how it tasted like a fine balance of honey and salt each time his mouth met it.

As he rubbed his body along hers, he found himself growing desperate—and just generally growing—to fill her again as he'd done before they'd drifted into slumber. Only this time, he wanted the control. He wanted to keep kissing and tasting, rocking and loving. He wanted to worship and conquer simultaneously.

He untwined his body from hers.

"Umm, Rose, I…well, I'd really like to…"

He couldn't think of a time his mouth had been less inclined to form words. A blush stole across his cheeks as he tried to think of the proper way to ask whether your partner was willing to engage in relations.

Luckily for him, Rose was highly intuitive—not to mention more than a little horny herself—and understood what he was trying to ask; or the crux of it anyway. She sat up slightly and reached for one of the magic packets on her nightstand. She ripped it open before he gently took the little rubber sheath from her and placed it over himself. He wasn't really sure how it worked, never having needed the use of a prophylactic before—well, excluding the previous night, but Rose had been in control then.

"You need to pinch the tip," Rose said quietly as she watched him closely.

His eyes bugged at the thought of pinching there. Rose had to stifle her laugh and very nearly bit through her lip as she tried.

"No, the tip here," she used her gentle fingers to demonstrate. "Like this."

The Doctor wasn't really watching, he knew he should have been but the moment her fingers caressed his skin, his eyes had rolled backward, and he'd inhaled sharply. She guided his fingers to roll the rubber down the last of his length before running her eyes slowly over his body and sliding back onto the bed, trailing her fingers down his chest and onto his stomach as an invitation.

He didn't need to be asked twice, nor did he ever refuse an invitation.

He quickly found his previous position, his whole body aligned with hers, only now he was conscious of taking it to the next level. He used his knees to gently coax her legs a little wider apart and gripped himself lightly. He watched Rose's eyes, silently asking for permission. She gave a tiny nod, and he guided himself into her as gently as he could as Rose twisted her hips to help him.

He knew when he'd found the right spot—the perfect spot—as her body yielded to him. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers as he adjusted to the feeling of the different angle of their position. Rose's hands clenched his thighs, digging her nails into his flesh and pulling him deeper into her.

It felt so good.

He tried it again, harder and harder. His actions grew wild, the force of his thrusts shifting the bed. Initially, he was concerned that he might have been hurting Rose, but her groans were not in protest, her touch not an opposition.

He reached up with one hand to grab the wooden headboard, using it to gain extra leverage as he allowed the brutal animal within him to escape in a rapid series of primal thrusts and lurches.

Beneath him, Rose's eyes rolled backward at the sensation. She panted roughly as he staked his claim on her body again and again. She was surprised by the roughness of his touch, the polar opposite of the gentle caresses of the previous evening, but then that was the Doctor. He was a walking contradiction: the lonely angel with a legion of followers willing to sacrifice themselves for him, the genocidal man born on a battlefield with a heart full of love. He was fun and caring, but the dangerous undercurrent seemed to constantly buzz just below the surface. For all of that though, she wasn't afraid. He wouldn't hurt her—not now as he pummelled into her with desire, not ever. She knew it deep within being.

He was her Doctor, and she was his Rose.

~ 0 ~

When the Doctor woke again, it was late in the morning. He realised he must have fallen asleep again. His memories of the previous evening sent a warmness spreading through his body. It only took a moment to discover he was alone. A note rested on Rose's pillow letting him know she'd left to go to work. He ran his hand along the empty space she had occupied, pretending for a moment that his hand was sliding along her smooth skin.

He stretched his body out languidly thinking that while he may not like the fact he wasn't able to travel all of space and time, and he might have felt useless not contributing to the household, but he could absolutely get used to the sleeping in malarkey.

He relaxed into the bedding—Rose's bed was much more comfortable than his makeshift one—and recalled their evening. He was stunned as he thought of how quickly it had gone from hopeful promise to, well, to everything. He was still a little uncertain where everything that had happened left the two of them as they'd very little chance to talk about the future. There had been no opportunity when he was between her thighs, feeling her body envelope him completely, nor when her wet mouth planted tiny kisses on his chest.

The future.

He'd once been able to use his time-sense to know what was going to happen—to see almost every possible outcome laid out in front of him like a map. He didn't use it very often—where was the fun in that—but he would have liked that sort of guide when thinking about his relationship with Rose. He wasn't sure whether it was because of the void the TARDIS had left, or whether his human mind was simply unable to cope with the constant influx of information, but he could no longer see the possibilities. He could only guess. He could extrapolate a series of outcomes based on his past experiences, but they would only be guesses. They would only be possibilities. He had no way of knowing with any degree of certainty what was going to come next for himself and Rose. The thought terrified him.

He hoped she understood that he wanted more. He wanted everything. He wondered whether moving all of the items from his room into hers would be too unsubtle.

The thoughts that ran through his mind began to stray from the tracks, worry and concern that maybe it was just about having a good time for her. Certainly he could now understand why some humans were drawn to the act of coupling, why some people even paid hard earned funds to have someone do that to them, but it wasn't about that for him. He was convinced it was better between him and Rose because he felt things for her, things that made the intimacy that much more intimate. No one could have convinced him otherwise.

As he thought about their night together, images of their bodies intertwined around one another played in his head. He began to wonder how human men ever got anything done. He could have quite easily done nothing more with his day than sit and think about Rose and about the two of them together.

Only, he did still have things he needed to achieve. He'd successfully ticked off one item on the 'To Do' list—he mentally chastised himself for thinking of Rose as a 'To Do' item. Then he thought about doing Rose and was once again lost in thoughts of naked bodies and tangled limbs.

He decided maybe if he left the comfort of her bed—where the images were all too easy to recall—he'd have more success thinking about anything other than Rose. Not that he minded thinking about Rose. In fact, he could have quite happily spent the rest of his life thinking about her, but that wouldn't help the 'kept man' persona that he absolutely didn't want. He couldn't really allow her to be the sole provider for their household. He briefly wondered where his utterly outdated notions of chivalry, and possibly border-line chauvinism, came from, but he put it down to the testosterone pumping around his new body.

He made his way to the bathroom—ensuring he had a towel handy—and started the shower. He'd been practising each time he'd used the shower and was slowly getting it down to an art. Turn up the hot all the way then back it off a little before turning on the cold. It worked for him yesterday, and he wasn't going to mess with a system that worked.

He scrubbed his face absently. His five o'clock shadow had quickly morphed into a long scruff. He knew he'd have to do something about it, but wasn't sure Rose would appreciate him borrowing her razor. He'd have to face the big, bad world of the supermarket before too long, but first, he needed a job.

He dried himself off and dressed quickly, spying his blue jacket and recalling his thoughts the previous night. He wondered whether it was possible he had some psychic paper in there, not that he needed it with his full compilation of identification. He was curious nonetheless.

He opened the jacket and looked into the inside pocket, his mouth broke into a wide smile as he realised that yes he did in fact have some of his fantastic paper with him. He couldn't wait to try it out.

He was distracted by a knock on the door. He tucked the paper back into the jacket pocket to keep it safe for the moment before going to investigate his visitor.

He hadn't even reached the door before he discovered the identity of the person beyond it. He would have recognised Jackie's voice anywhere.

"Tony Tyler! You come here this instant. No. Oh, for heaven's sake, sweetheart."

The Doctor opened the door cautiously. The space behind it was empty save for a bag and a bucket of toys. He poked his head around the corner, looking down the hallway.

A beleaguered looking Jackie walked toward him carrying a young boy who looked like he was trying to climb over her in a bid to escape.

"Thank goodness you're here," Jackie said as she closed the distance to Rose's apartment. "I called Rose, and she said you might be. Everything he needs is in here," she placed the bag in his hands. "And I've brought some of his favourite toys too. I'll be a few hours, tops."

"Umm…" The Doctor looked down at the rather hefty bag in his arms. He had no idea what Jackie was talking about.

"I have a Doctor's appointment, but Tony's got the flu so he's at home today. I called Rose, and she said you'd be here."

She waited for him to catch on.

"You are able to watch him for me aren't you?"

"Oh!" he exclaimed as he finally realised what she meant. "Oh." He realised the implications of looking after a small child—alone. Then he realised that Jackie was willingly entrusting him with her offspring, and he felt momentarily touched.

"Yeah, sure." He nodded.

After all, how hard could it really be?

~ 0 ~

Two hours later, the Doctor had his answer.

Very.

It could be very hard indeed.

He'd spent the first ten minutes in relative calm.

"Are you the Doc-Tah?" Tony had asked before demanding to hear stories of Aunt Ro in the TARDITH.

The Doctor had gladly began telling some of the less scary stories, keeping in mind that the boy couldn't have been more than three or four, but then Tony had grown bored. And hungry. Then he'd decided to uproot the box of toys and distribute them all over small apartment, and there wasn't a single surface that had escaped the torment of his sticky fingers after he'd devoured the lollies that was in his bag.

Then the sugar high kicked in, and he ran around the coffee table non-stop for fifteen minutes. The Doctor grew exhausted just watching him. It wasn't that he was a bad kid, he just never stopped. The Doctor imagined his own kids would probably be very similar, and then worried that he was already picturing his own kids.

Finally, the Doctor decided to kill two birds with one stone. He would see whether his psychic paper still worked while entertaining Tony at the same time. He held up the paper and asked Tony what he wanted to see. He'd ended up with an hour of near quiet as he'd shown Tony pictures on the psychic paper—dragons and dinosaurs, spaceships and trucks; he'd even shown him an Ood.

When Jackie finally came back to pick Tony up the Doctor was equal parts relieved and disappointed.

As she was leaving—having thanked him again and again—he made sure he let her know that Tony was welcome back anytime.

~ 0 ~