A/N: Managed to get this up much earlier than I expected. Enjoy! :D
Allons-y!
. . .
The Most Terrible Time of the Month
Rose Tyler has never been the type of girl to mark it down on a calendar; with double-shifts at Henrik's, domestic duties, and rare nights out with the girls, she doesn't have the time to keep track. In all honesty, she doesn't know any real girls who do, they all seem to exist as quirky rom-com heroines whose sole purpose in life is to have great hair, killer legs, and a gorgeous boyfriend to come home to (in a flat no normal twenty-something could afford) who said heroine can shag to her heart's content without fear of getting pregnant because she knows exactly where she is – down to the minute – in her ovulation cycle. (Rose's hair is alright on the best of days, her legs could do with work, and she still lives in a flat with her mum. She has had one pregnancy scare with Jimmy who, though undoubtedly gorgeous, advises her to cool it on the chips for a little while when the stick shows up negative because I don't date fatties and abandons her a month later.)
She and Mickey don't do it often enough – whether because she's so busy or because she just doesn't care enough, Rose isn't sure – to justify worry and on the TARDIS it is difficult enough to keep track of the current day, never mind counting thirty of them between one period and the next.
The Doctor remembers anyway. Heating pads are placed in any room on the TARDIS she may happen to frequent and Rose's favorite films mysteriously make their way into the DVD player in the days preceding. One day, she catches him stocking one of the cupboards with her favorite chocolates, ready to be miraculously discovered in the case of a craving, and is simultaneously overwhelmed with incredible affection (he is the sweetest man, my God, I love him so much) and irritation (I can take care of myself – I'm just as capable as buying that stuff as he is, I'm just trying to watch my figure. God, I'm fat). She settles for crying instead.
It's alright, the Doctor soothes, murmuring the words against her hair. Happens to the best of us. Besides, you only have one more day till your menstruation begins and your hormones are all over the place.
"How do you even know that?" Rose snaps. Words like menstruation aren't supposed to sound that sexy slipping off the tongue.
Well, he hedges. I smell you.
"I smell?"
No! Yes. Not really . . . a little. You see, your body exudes certain chemicals at certain points in . . . but it's lovely, really. You smell like – like Rose, your own personal perfume. They should bottle it: Eau de Rose, they'd make millions. He beams at her, but looks horrified as her eyes fill with tears again.
Really, Rose, you smell beautiful. Best scent in the universe, you are. I'm telling you, I'd bottle you up and . . . sorry, that sounds wrong. Who's up for chips? Chips sound good? I'll go and get chips. Salt-and-vinegar?
"Am I really that scary?" Rose asks the next day, curled up in bed – the Doctor correct, as per usual, in his estimation of her menstruation – with another meal of chips (the greasiest I could find) and Cadbury chocolate, the Doctor sitting attentively by her side.
The Doctor only scoffs, reaching over to adjust the heating pad on her abdomen. Rose Tyler, I've faced down Daleks. . . .
"And a girl on her period makes you shake in your Converse." Rose laughs, wincing as another cramp courses through her, and is quick to accept the pain pills he proffers (it has barely been four hours but he keeps them up like clockwork).
I'm a Doctor, Rose. I don't like seeing anyone in pain. Especially – and for a moment, she thinks he will say you, the word floating in the air between them even now, an unspoken promise but he finishes instead: not with something so barbaric.
"Barbaric? Why don't you go and call me a stupid ape while you're at it. Been a whole week since you've done that." Rose pelts a chip at his head; he catches it and pops it into her partially-open mouth before licking the salt off his own fingertips.
It is, though. You human women have to go through this every month, don't you? Only stops if you get pregnant; of course, then you have to go through childbirth anyway. I've delivered a few children in my day and it doesn't seem a whole lot of fun. And all because those first humans – now they were really stupid apes – ate the wrong piece of fruit and your God was feeling a bit tetchy. Bet it was a pear, I've never liked pears. Now a banana, He'd probably have forgiven that, just gone 'don't do it again' or sommat. They're too delicious to really make a fuss over, aren't they? And a great source of potassium. . . .
"What about your lot, then?" Rose asks, abruptly cutting off his babble. "Don't Gallifreyan women . . . sorry, I shouldn't have asked, forget it." But she catches sight of his expression, turned haunted and pensive at the mere mention of his former home, and knows he is already there, bearing witness where no one else can.
He tells her that Gallifreyans didn't have children in the traditional way and didn't have to worry about messy little things like fertilization and menstruation and a bunch of other -ations. He tells her that the conception is a ceremonial process between husband and wife and the child is little more than a blend of ingredients, a genetic soup. He tells her that, though Gallifreyan parents care for their children, marriages are arranged, a bonding of two like minds, advantageous only in the knowledge to be gained. He tells her – Rose not exactly sure why he is telling her but the words seem to be coming too fast for him to stop them now – that any other feelings are discouraged (if not, in the more rebellious cases, eliminated altogether), that a Time Lord's solitary purpose is to be just that – a lord of time, knowing all there is to know – and everything else just gets in the way.
Rose hisses in pain and she sees the Doctor's fingers clench before his eyes grow soft. He leans forward to readjust the heating pad, leaving his hand there for just a moment to rub soothing circles across her skin. He clears away the chips and chocolate wrappers before he presents her with a cup of honeyed tea (two hours till the next dose, Rose, I'm sorry) and asks if she wants to watch a film.
He flips on the television, When Harry Met Sally already in the player, and settles in next to her, stroking her hair when she uses his chest as a pillow.
He stays all night.
. . .
A/N: Next chapter, to be titled Nights In, should be out soon! I will also be working on a couple of fluffy one-shots that have been taking up space in the back of my mind for a while now so be on the lookout for those!
As always, let me know what you thought in a review!