The TARDIS door clicks shut, and Rose glances at the Doctor. He is leaning heavily on the console, staring intently at the view screen. She approaches him slowly, can feel the shimmering red of his presence in the back of her mind, feels the tension leaking off of him. His hands are clenched tightly, knuckles white, and his jaw is locked stiffly. She can see the dimple in his left cheek, the tiny vein that pulses above his temple, the hardness in his eyes and the weary slump of his shoulders. He looks utterly exhausted, worn far beyond his capacity, and it is all Rose can do not to wrap her arms gently around him.
She moves beside him instead, looking over his shoulder at the view screen. It is zoomed in on Dex and Nathan. Their backs are to the TARDIS and they are laughing. Rose glances at the Doctor, is shocked to see the depth of adoration in his eyes. She'd known, of course, that he would love Dex if he gave himself the chance, but seeing it written so plainly on his face, the magnitude and the intensity of it, hits her like a punch in the gut, nearly brings tears to her eyes. She'd had nothing to fear.
He watches her from the corner of his eye, everything that he wants in the whole universe. She looks the same, smells the same, he even thinks he can feel her golden presence humming faintly in the back of his mind, shoves it away roughly. It hurts beyond anything, this almost-Rose that he could so easily lose himself to, thinks he would, if not for his son. He wants her so badly, needs her, and it is affecting his judgement, makes him vulnerable.
He senses her gaze, turns and looks at her. His eyes are deep wells of regret and infinite sadness, are weary and hollow and ancient. It breaks her hearts to see him so shaken. He stares at her for a moment, blinking. "What do you want?" he asks finally, straightening and running his fingers half-heartedly through his hair.
She blinks at him. She hadn't been expecting that, doesn't know how to answer.
He watches her impassively, face carefully blank. She looks at him seriously. "Doctor, it's me," she says softly, reaching for his hand.
He flinches at her touch, pulls back as if burned. "Don't," he says roughly, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily. "Just- please, don't."
She backs away obligingly, decides that if space is what he needs, she will gladly give it to him.
Neither of them speak for a long while. The room is deathly still and silent, tension between them nearly palpable.
"What are you?" he chokes, finally.
'I'm not a Slitheen,' she nearly says, stops herself just in time. She cannot help it, she reaches forward and takes his hand. He flinches again, but does not pull away. She looks into his impossibly deep brown eyes, searching for some sort of connection there. She feels a slight tremor run through him, rubs her thumb gently across his knuckles. "I'm Rose Tyler," she says gently, hoping beyond hope that he understands, accepts her.
His face hardens and he rips away from her, eyes blazing. "Don't you dare," he snarls roughly. "Don't you dare speak her name." He thrusts the view screen sharply toward her, zooms in on Dex, who is giggling with Nathan.
"Do you see this little boy?" he asks her, eyes softening just slightly, never leaving the screen. "That's my son. He's-" his voice wavers and he catches himself, swallows. "He's only seven. Seven years old, and he's lost his mother, had to watch her die." He closes his eyes and inhales sharply at the memory. "So whatever it is you want, a body or a consciousness or-" he waves his hands, at a loss. "Just please, please not this one," he pleads in a broken whisper.
Rose is struck dumb. She's never seen the Doctor this broken, this honest, and it tears her to shreds, scares her thoroughly. She wonders what's happened in the years she's been gone to change him, wonders what she will have to do to have smiling, bouncy Doctor back, thinks fiercely that she will stop at nothing.
We're rubbish without each other, she realizes sharply, breath catching in her chest.
She decides to give him time, to back off and let him work it out on his own. There is nothing that she can say. "Right, then," she says softly, backing to the door of the TARDIS. "I'll just be outside, you know, if you need me."
She turns, and he watches her go, shakes with the effort of allowing her to walk away. I always need you, he nearly says, biting his treacherous tongue. 'What if?' whisper his hearts, and he shoves the thought away forcefully. Rose Tyler is dead. He knows, had watched, powerless.
Her hand touches the door and he snaps.
A strong hand grips her wrist and she is jerked backward, into his arms. They wrap around her like steel, and she barely has time to breath before his lips capture hers in a bruising kiss. It is messy, fierce, full of anger and desperation and unresolved grief, and he backs her forcefully against the console, crushing the backs of her legs. He is relentless, all teeth and lips and hot, wet tongue, and Rose learns very quickly how to engage her respiratory bypass system.
She manages to unbutton his jacket before he realizes what she is doing. His eyes flash dangerously, and he nips her bottom lip hard. She gasps, tastes the coppery tang of her blood, and he takes the opportunity to clench her wrists tightly and shove her hands away from him. He shrugs out of the jacket, lets it fall carelessly to the ground.
He roughly unzips her trousers, fingers shaking, and shoves them down her legs, knickers and all. He lifts her easily, dumps her savagely on the console, breathing heavily. The controls dig uncomfortably into her bare skin as he leans into her.
He buries himself in her with a soft grunt, and she gasps. She isn't ready, hadn't realized just how impossibly long and hard he is. He pins her arms to her sides and wraps his hands around them, fingers bruising the small of her back. He stretches her, stabs into her painfully, fills her so that Rose thinks she cannot possibly hold him all. He is hot and hard, hits all of the right places as he thrusts into her, deep and fast and savage, grasping the small of her back tightly for leverage. His hot breath hits her face in shuddering puffs and Rose shivers, can hardly distinguish the pleasure from the pain. His gaze locks on to her as he thrusts into her, eyes black and furious. It sets a fire on Rose's skin, and she shudders, feels the heat gathering deep in her belly.
All he can think as he buries himself in her is how wrong it is. She is too dry, warm but not wet, but he thrusts into her anyway, breathing heavily with the effort. He misses the gentle brush of her hands against his skin, realizes that his fingers ache from gripping her wrists so tightly, does not loosen his hold. He looks into her eyes, those warm amber eyes that are watching him carefully. They do not accuse, do not judge or blame, only look at him sadly, understanding. He shivers, resentful of her pity, fuels it into a raging fire that keeps him driving into her, though his hearts scream at him to stop. He cannot keep this up, the pace and the pain of it, and he pounds faster, desperate for relief, for an end to the hurt.
Rose is right on the edge when he shudders, spills into her with a low grunt. He leans into her shoulder, spent, and releases her hands. The fire in her belly slowly ebbs away, and she reaches up, gently runs her fingers through his sweaty hair. He trembles just slightly at her touch.
He finds no relief with release. He'd hoped to bury it all between her thighs, the grief and the guilt and the regret, but all that's abated is the anger. He'd needed it, the burning rage, the bitterness. It had kept him focused, but it is gone, washed away by a flood of exhaustion, and now he is just lonely and empty. He leans into her, breathes her scent and closes his eyes. She gently brushes her fingers through his hair, and it is so close, so almost exactly like her, that he nearly shatters, nearly lets her in.
He catches her gaze, nearly buckles under the weight of it. It is love and forgiveness and acceptance, and he shivers, finds that he cannot meet her eyes. He looks away, cannot allow himself to be vulnerable. He feels the gentle glow of his son's mind against his own, steels himself, strengthening his resolve. He pulls away, hastily zipping his trousers, and storms out of the room, leaving her half naked on the console.
She watches him go, hearts aching for him, had seen the hurt and the shame in his eyes, thinks that maybe she should have stopped him. She slides off the console and dresses slowly, mindful of the raw ache between her thighs. She's going to be very sore tomorrow.
She sighs heavily, wonders if she should go after him, wonders what she could possibly say, thinks that it probably isn't a good idea. She briefly considers checking on Dex, decides that she needs to fix this first, though she has no idea where to begin. Tea, she thinks, reverting to the simple, fix-all ritual of her childhood. I need tea.
She makes her way to the galley, grateful to find that it is still in the same spot she remembers. She absently fills the kettle, slumps on the table and waits for the water to boil.
She isn't angry with him, knows he's hurting, knows that it is not his fault that he cannot accept her. He deals in absolutes, in science and facts and impossibilities, and she is beyond his comprehension. Dex believed her dead, had, apparently, watched - her hearts clinch at the thought. She cannot imagine what is going through his mind right now, is touched by his fierce protectiveness of his son, wonders if it could be more than that, if he still feels the same way for her as she does for him. Obviously, he still finds her physically desirable, though that had never really been a question. She shakes her head. She has too much to worry about to complicate matters by trying to navigate the complexities and motivations of Time Lord sexual encounters.
The kettle whistles and she carefully makes her tea, measuring just the right amount of milk. She sets it on the table in front of her, watches it cool. She doesn't drink it.
She feels a presence at the door, looks up and meets his eyes. His face is unreadable, too many emotions for her to identify. He watches for for a moment, silently, then breaks his gaze and strides across the room toward the kettle. She watches him make his tea, and he can sense her gaze on his back. It agitates him, and he slams the kettle loudly on the counter, haphazardly dumps far too much sugar in his cup.
He leans against the counter, facing her, and stares into his cup of tea. She watches him carefully. There is a long moment of silence.
"I don't understand," he rasps quietly to the teacup.
She looks at him, thinks it is the most honest he's ever been. His face is suddenly unguarded, and he just looks sad and exhausted and vulnerable. It makes him look so young, she thinks, startled. He'd always been so alien, so above silly human emotions, unflappable, that Rose is struck by the sudden contrast. She takes him in, dark eyes and pale face and freckles, hair disheveled and expression defeated. He is in only his rumpled t-shirt and trousers, still smells of sex, and she thinks he might crash to the ground from sheer exhaustion.
She loves him so much.
His teacup shatters on the floor. She realizes, belatedly, that he'd dropped it, is staring at her intently, shock and disbelief and confusion written on his face, brow furrowed and mouth hanging open just slightly. She watches him, confused.
Oh, she thinks, blinking stupidly, realizing what she'd done.
She'd projected that thought.