10: The Doctor makes a confession

The Doctor feels bereft. Acutely, coldly bereft. Losing Rose's presence leaves a cavity in him, but he had to separate them before she realised she was standing in the middle of his monumental surrender. (And before the intensity of it broke her.) Now, while the hole in his mind is filling up with a longing that will never go away, he tries to come to terms with the fact that it's time to fess up to himself. Thin lines crossed – probably ages ago, barriers broken, doors and windows all ajar: Ok. Alright. Alright, so maybe he's... No, not maybe. He's... Yeah. All that... unleashed. Fine. No going back now. Admit and move on. Nothing has to change-

"What?"

The Doctor is pulled from his thoughts by Rose's voice, just above a whisper from across an ocean of space. She lies facing him at least a foot away (it's like a billion nanometers), exhausted from emotional turmoil and sleep deprivation. She's looking at him, eyes curious behind heavy lids.

"What?"

"You just said 'fess up'."

"No..." The Doctor glances sideways.

"I'm pretty sure you did..." She trails off, and with a flutter her eyelids fall shut once again. Over no nightmares this time, but a dreamless sleep, a deep and harmonic rest. She needs it, he knows, and he needs it too, he thinks. Thoughtfully he takes the hand fallen between them, holds it, studies it. Moments ago it rested on his cheek in what felt like a gesture of forgiveness. He brings it with him as he turns on his back, pulling Rose's arm out to lay half-way across his chest, and leaves it on his sternum. He tucks his own hand under his head. Where was he? Oh yes. In the state of surrender. So... yeah. Should have seen it coming. Did see. Did, and tried very hard to not, but ended up, anyway. So there it is. Completely inappropriate, inconvenient and ultimately heart-shattering. Irresistible and unavoidable.

Love.

He mouths the word. Turns it, tastes it. Love.

Love.

Rose.

Love. Rose.

Love Rose.

He loves Rose.

Yeah.

Which in itself is nothing new, who wouldn't, she's brilliant. The question: In what way.
The answer: All of them.

What does he do with that?

The easiest thing would be to do nothing. To hide it deep inside, carry on like normal and pretend there are no questions yearning to be answered in the back of his mind, no desires other than holding her hand. Rather that, than giving her the choice and risking her making the wrong one.

Right?

She loves him. Of course she does, who wouldn't, he's brilliant. The question is, again, in what way.

There are little things. The warmth in her eyes, the linger of a touch. The confidence that she is devoted to him, albeit in a way that may as well be completely friendly. In her mind there was too much devastation at the time to see anything else, although he did sense just how much she had missed him and it kept threatening to break his hearts.

She will break his hearts. Sooner or later, in one way or another; it's inevitable. Maybe that's why he made that vow to never, never ever... So that's settled, he already knew that. What doesn't have to be risked – what shouldn't, what really mustn't – is hers being broken as well. On the off chance that she would want to take a shot at it (he doesn't care to calculate the odds on that), one could never tell how it would turn out. He could prove to be relationally challenged, treat her wrong, hurt her. He could regenerate into something she doesn't like. He could get stuck on the wrong side of some time anomaly, abandoning her by accident (again). He sees all possibilities, and there's

(one that's... too good for words)

no end to the ones of heartbreak.

So, no. He won't say a word. Swear on the Tardis, cross his hearts, hope to die.

"Rose...!"

Treacherous gob.

At the sound of his hushed voice Rose stirs. The weight of her arm shifts across him, sneaking around him, grounding him. It doesn't feel restricting – it feels safe. Her head nuzzles in on his shoulder, she sighs. The Doctor plans to stay still for the rest of his life.

"Rose!"

Damn it.

"Mmh."

The inticing, sleepy murmur makes his eyelids flutter. But the part of him that won't shut up is quite urgent, making him get a hold of himself and ask for the light to be turned up further as he turns over and shakes Rose's shoulder.

"Rose! Wake up!"

And she does. Slowly blinking, a sensuous haze in her eyes. He finds himself looking down at her face, softly lit and glowing, and for the first time he lets it take his breath away.

Rose is made of yarn. Warm, soft, vibrant purple cashmere and she knows what she'd fess up to if the Doctor pressed her for it. And as his voice and touch pull her back from sleep she wonders if she started dreaming of something else entirely, because the face hovering above her when she opens her eyes wears an expression she's never seen on it, outside of her own dreams; dazed, and smouldering. For a sleepy, confused second she thinks he's going to kiss her. Then her throat tickles, she coughs and wakes up completely. The Doctor lets go of her shoulder, pulling back.

"Hello!" He shoots her a signature grin, with a hint of uncharacteristic uncertainty playing in his eyes.

"Hi..." She rubs her eye. "How long was I out? Ugh, I need to wash my face." Her voice is rough, worn, and she frowns at the strain of speaking and at the light.

"Oh, two or three minutes. Listen. I need to tell you something."

She pushes herself up on her elbows. "What?"

The Doctor's mouth falls open for a few seconds while he seems to be searching for words, or for control over his synapses in general. His eyes wide open, deer caught in the headlights look makes her want to laugh and reach out and comfort him, yarn turning cotton candy turning melting sugar at the sight of his face. She waits; he doesn't seem to want to continue. Finally he blurts: "I just broke a promise."

But at that point something else is catching her attention. She sits up, rubbing her face, and looks around. She doesn't recognise this room.

"Where are we? I've never been in here..." She yawns. "Aweh inne Dardis?" She looks at the chair, the shelf, the walls. The bed they're sitting on is narrower than hers, made with white linens neatly tucked under the mattress. It looks unused, apart from the rumpling caused by them sitting on it now. She spots something blue behind the Doctor.

"Oi!" She reaches out and takes her pillow, turning it over and smoothing it, smiling. "Thought I lost this..."
"We're in my room, yes. I, um, broke two, or, I made two, and just broke the one and now I'm about to break the other, I think..."

"Your room?" Rose is struck with the fact that she is, again, privy to something personal, that the Doctor seems to be letting her into all of his private areas (she won't finish that thought, no), and while she doesn't want to seem brash it does make her, again, infinitely curious. Her eyes grow as she looks around again, trying to connect the room with the inhabitant. It won't be done, there is nothing strange, interesting, quirky, funny, amazing in here. No colour, save for her own pillow, and she wonders briefly how it got there. She looks back to the Doctor and catches a quick glance to something behind her before he continues.

"Yes. You know what, never mind, you must be hungry, let's make breakfast."

Rose follows that glance. She turns, stands up on her knees, and gazes over a wall covered with:

Drawings.

Hand-made, detailed, well executed drawings. What looks like a whole notebook's worth of sheets. All drawn with pencil, all featuring people doing all sorts of things. Different settings, different situations, but as she sweeps over them she sees a theme; the people all seem to be the same. Paired up, two in each drawing, a male figure with no face and a woman that, on closer inspection, looks rather like herself. Smiling, talking, playing cards, taming a dragon – it is, there's no mistake, it's her. Her clothes, her hair, her face. And the other one, well – even with empty space above the coat's collar, and sometimes the leather jacket's, there's no doubt about who that's supposed to be.

Drawings of her and the Doctor. How strange, that she's never seen them before. How... nice.

"What are all these?" she asks without turning, distracted by the delicacy with which one of the Doctors is sliding his fingers into the hair of one of the Roses while helping her try on a hat.

"I... got bored?" he tries.

"That too..." Her eyes rest briefly on a pair of dancing clowns, a bit different from the rest but perhaps resembling them underneath the flamboyant make-up. She turns from picture to picture, tracing the entwined hands that occur on more than a few. There is such joy, such companionship and affection and tenderness permeating them all, almost like an invocation. Much like her own daydreams, the meditations she tried soothing herself with during her time on Wrong Earth, wishing for dear life that she was back doing anything or nothing with Him.

"But no... you got lonely", she states, slight surprise in her low voice. For some reason she never considered that he might miss her as much. That he might... need her, as much. And definitely not that he might-

"You made all these?" she interrupts herself. "When?"

"Well, when you went home to Jackie's, you were gone for days and days and I just, I... missed... you." The airy voice badly hides the sincerity of the words.

Rose stays staring at the wall, because she's afraid of what will be on display on her face should she turn and face the Doctor. Hope, nerves, utter vulnerability. She fixes her eyes on a bunny rabbit, skipping ahead of them through a field of daffodils. It looks just like that place in the Doctor's mind, just before it shifted into something else, before she glimpsed something he wouldn't let her fully see. That garden, what it represented, these pictures, what's in them, those looks, those words, those touches that didn't really happen because they were fleeting thoughts in his, her, their mind – they mean something.

Rose's mind wanders between the scenes in front of her and all the thoughts within that they resonate with. When she had first begun realising, on dark, lonely, sleepless nights in makeshift hide-outs that the amusing crush she'd been harbouring towards the Doctor was something much larger than that, she had been afraid. There was no room for something like that, not in her mind, and not between them, should she ever find him again. He was larger than life and she was just a girl, a girl who would inevitably fail him in the end just by being human and he would see no reason to bring another dimension to their friendship, should he even be able to feel that way about her.

That was at first.

Then, she had started to get used to the idea. Not the idea of the Doctor and her, as such, but of the feelings being there. In her. She allowed herself to find solace in little fantasies, memories with added meaning, daydreams with new details. She could keep that shining sphere of affection and attraction to herself, in herself, drawing strength and joy from it without ever sharing it with anyone else. So she did, for a while.

Eventually the softness in her had been compressed and forgotten, hope chafing away as time went by with no sight of him, grief striking her time and again in the fight for freedom in a world that wasn't hers, with friends she didn't know.

When he did come to get her it was unbelievable. She was filled with resentment, but more towards the world than the Doctor and it didn't take many nights waking up screaming to realise she wanted nothing but to be back with him, and the Tardis, and their life. And then it was quick. She had expected him to be off somewhere, tangled in one adventure or another and not coming for her for days, maybe weeks. But he had been there. The Doctor, the ever elusive wanderer, the pathologically restless, the can't-stay-in-one-spot-for-ten-seconds had been right there, just waiting. Waiting for her.

Tonight he saved her from something. Saved her from the enemy within, saved her from herself. And he did it by gathering her up and taking her into himself, into his beautiful mind and she finds it hard to imagine a more intimate action or a larger self-sacrifice.

Now this. These drawings, these incantations, these wishes. He's been sitting in his room – this empty, uninteresting room that doesn't fit him at all – drawing pictures of what he wishes for. And what he wishes for, is her. Perhaps only as the friend she is, but perhaps...

Maybe it wouldn't harm to probe the terrain.

Dare she?

"Doctor... If I didn't know any better", she says as she turns around, "I'd say you like me."

She dare.

"Of course I do, silly rabbit. You're Rose! Rose-Rose. Rose-Rose-Rose", the Doctor professes with an unnoticable waver. He's sitting cross-legged, one hand on his lap, the other squeezing his shoe. Rose chuckles. Not quite what she meant, but it's a start. "Do you have any idea..." she begins, but her courage momentarily falters and she looks away, back to the drawing with the hat.

"Oh, Rose, so many, many ideas. Don't you know by now I'm a genius?"

That earns the Doctor an amused scowl and Rose turning back to him, sitting back on her heels. "Why's your face missing? In all of them, your face, it's... not there."

The Doctor scratches his ear. "Well, it didn't really seem relevant, you know, and there wouldn't have been much diversity in the expressions and besides I didn't know which one you'd prefer", he cuts himself off, matter-of-factly. Rose makes a puppy face. "I like this one", she assures, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his cheek before she has time to think twice. "And the last one, too, but this is... good." She expects herself to take her hand back, but it won't be moved. It lingers on its own accord, registering the soft hairs of his sideburn and warmth of his skin. She feels her own cheeks heat up, wondering how much of a fool she's making herself and why, why, why she thought risking to shake their settled world would be a good idea. But his face feels so appealing beneath her fingertips, his eyes look so dark and deep and serious and when he reaches up, not to take her hand away but to hold it to his face, her breath catches. When it returns it has her courage on tow. She picks up where she left off.

"Do you have any idea, how much I missed you?"

His eyes are unwavering, hand steady over hers. She can feel his jaw move as he answers, tiny stubbles against the skin of her palm and it sends electricity from her hand through her arm all the way into her core.

"I do. I saw- Well, felt it."

Oh. That's right. He must have been in her mind, too. The thought makes her a confused blend of hopeful and regretful – he might already know everything in there. When she continues she tries to sound more cheeky than she feels, and fails.

"What else did you see?"

The Doctor places his hand back on his lap, and Rose fights the burn of disappointment before she realises he's still holding hers. At least that's something familiar, to make the soft, low tone of his voice a little less alien.

"Pain, and bravery." He looks at their hands, then back at her. "You were a real soldier."

Rose offers a small, bitter smile. "Yeah, well... There's something missing in the 'soul' of a 'soldier'."

The Doctor's expression brightens. "What's that then?"

"...'U'..."

Rose can't believe she just said that. But the Doctor beams away, she sees, when she ventures to look back at him.

"Rose!" he exclaims happily. "That's the cheesiest thing you've ever said!"

A tickly wave rolls through her, washes out the tension and throws her into a fitful of laughter together with him.

"I know!" she wails, "But it's true!" She tries to get words out amid bursts of laughter. "I really felt like something was missing, you know, from here-" She puts her hand to her heart, forgetting that it's attached to his, and the laughter subsides into a slightly embarrassed smile at the contact between his knuckles and her chest. She lets their hands sink to the bed where she can fidget with something on his pantsleg. "I hated it there. But I did some good, I think."

"I'm proud of you, Rose", he says, honest admiration lining his smile. She looks up and meets it.

"That's all I ever wanted."

Because it is, really. She can live with feelings unspoken, keeping that part of her heart to herself like before and love him quietly. Anything for that acknowledgement, and their friendship and this life to go on. She remembers how strongly she wished for his approval that time he was upset with her, for messing up in Wrong London, and having it now is a happy relief.

"Is it?" The Doctor's smile stays on, but something serious lurks behind it. "All you ever wanted?"

The question has Rose a bit nervous as she wonders just how rhetorical it is. She's always enjoyed a bit of flirtatious banter but this is not one of those situations; there is uncertainty here, possible risk and she's not sure of how to tread or even what she wants to do.

"What more could a girl ask for?" she tries, casually.

"Girl like you? Should ask for the whole shebang", he answers, casually.

"What's 'the whole shebang'?"

"Oh, I don't know... What's in the world, eh? The suns and the moons and the... tides... this..." he says, gesturing unspecifically to their surroundings. "...life long health insurance..." he finishes with a light cough. Rose raises her eyebrows and nods in feigned comprehension.

The Doctor is dying a little bit. The part of him that wouldn't shut up has gone off and hidden, leaving him alone with indecisiveness, doubt and something that feels uncomfortably like fear, and now he's on this painfully tip-toeing walk around something he doesn't know how to express. He, who knows everything. It's annoying, really. Unnerving. Exasperating. He wants to lay down again.

He tips over on his back, hitting the mattress with a poof that conceals the huff from his nose. Rose, bless her, moves to his side and lets him stretch his legs out over the wrong end of the bed. She lies on her hip, leaning on her arm, a bit like a mermaid. He met mermaids once, they were... anyway, she's looking down at him, looking like she wants to say something. When she finally does, it's in the softest of questioning voices, as if she daren't disturb the silence.

"Doctor?"

"Hm?"

"What promise?"

Oh. Ok. Holy Jebus, here we go then.

"Well..." He drags it out, swallows. "I, long time ago, by your standards, my standards are of a completely different realm, being, you know... old, and such, made a very serious promise to never, never, never never never-umm actuallyfallforacompanion and then I sort of went ahead and did anyway which by definition made me break said promise and then I made another one, to not say anything about it and that was quite resent and now I broke that too." He clasps his gesturing hands still on his chest but keeps looking at all kinds of interesting spots in the ceiling. Rose plops down a notch, from hand to elbow, and frowns at him.

"Rewind, repeat. Slow-er."

There was a rock in that rapid stream of words that solved everything, she knows. But before butterflies start coming out of her ears she needs to find it, hold on to it, feel its solidity in her hand. She needs him to be frank.

The Doctor finally turns to look at her, pleadingly. "Rose, if I ask you something, will you say yes?"

How to speak without breath she doesn't know, but she does it anyway. "Anything. Everything."

There is a moment's hesitation.

"I want to get a bunny rabbit."

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry; being sick of the latter she opts for the former. It feels nice, like before it washes some of the tension out and makes her braver. She reconnects with the urge to comfort him, her old friend, her crazy incomprehensible Doctor. And to take action.

"You're not making any sense", she complains affectionately, placing her head on his shoulder and her hand on his stomach where she can feel a quick flinch beneath her touch.

"I'm making perfect sense, it's you that-" The Doctor turns his head to find Rose's face suddenly much closer than expected. So close, in fact, that he's brushing against her forehead with the corner of his mouth, his lips. He expects himself to move away, but doesn't. His face lingers of its own accord, registering the feeling of salty skin radiating heat, and the scent of newly washed hair.

"Do you have any idea", she murmurs against his neck, warm breath tickling, "how much I missed you?"

"We covered that", he says, rapidly blinking.

"Do you have any idea", she continues, and he swears those are eyelashes fluttering against his jugular like wonderful threats, "how much I care about you?"

"I have a general idea", he confesses, taking the hand resting on his stomach, to keep it there.

"Doctor", she demands, playfully stern, propping herself up on her elbow again, "do you – like – me?"

The Doctor rubs across her knuckles with his thumb before looking up at her, calm now, and earnest.

"No."

He continues before that imminent frown has time to form.

"No, I love you, Rose. Very much."

Rose chokes on air for a second, then croaks:

"In what way?"

It's terrifying. Incredibly liberating though, he must say. And he's sure she'll understand just what he means when he says:

"Ooh... All of them."

Rose reels, swirls with the notion. She plops down onto the Doctor's shoulder again, yarn being much too floppy to support anything of weight.

"I love you like a crazy person", she squeeks into his neck. He's fairly sure of just what she means, and it makes him marvel, and laugh. She what now? Of course she does, why wouldn't she, but... really? Something in him implodes and explodes in cascades of joy.

"You are a crazy person."

"You should talk."

They lie still for a moment, breathing, smiling in different directions. Rose has decided the crook of his neck is the place to be, warm and inticing and smelling of Doctor. She allows herself tiny exploring movements, brushing her nose against the sensitive skin that has been off limits for too long. Eventually placing a small kiss under his ear she thrills at the light gasp that follows. She can no longer contain herself, she simply has to do it:

"You li-ike me... You want to hu-ug me, and ki-iss me..." she sing-songs into his ear, walking her fingers up along his ribs.

"Rose", he warns slowly.

"You think I'm go-o-" she mocks on, the rest of the words drenched in giggles as she is suddenly thrown over, pounced on by a manic alien. While they fight for control over her hands he tries to lecture her.

"Now, Rose, you know I hated that movie. The storyline was completely unbelievable, and this Sandra Bullock-person-"

"You loved it!"

"Yeah, I did", he happily admits. "It was brilliant. Especially with you snorting like a little piggy next to me every time you laughed."

"I did not." Rose grins.

"Did too." The Doctor grins back. "I remember", he enunciates to point out his superiority in things like remembering.

"Yeah? Remember this? BA-BA-BA-BABA-"

"Rose, don't you dare!" He has to give up one of her hands to cover her mouth from shouting more of the ghastly theme music from that silly space movie.

It's not the first time he's had to stop her from making a ruckus, but it is the first time he's been so aware of the softness of her lips moving against the palm of his hand as she smiles and tries to speak. It fascinates him. She fascinates him.

He frees her mouth, moving to softly trace the line of her jaw, fingertips across her cheek, behind her ear. Moments ago, agony, now – this? He can do this? He's suddenly allowed, he supposes, to sit on top of her, stare at her in unmasked admiration and touch her like this, because for some magical reason she wants him to. For some magical reason she wants him, too. He feels the way she leans into his touch, sees the way she blinks slowly and leaves her eyes half-open. He hears the way her heart beats differently, faster, lighter, like his (is he officially allowed to listen to that now? He should ask). And he sees something glint in her eyes, a thought. The captive hand that has surrendered and interlaced with his, carefully pulls loose and starts travelling up his side, nails tracing through the fabric of his shirt. The gesture is light, questioning, and he slides his fingers into her hair at the temple to confirm that yes, she's allowed, do continue, for all the world please.

"Thank you for trying to fix me", she says, in thankful acknowledgement of what he did before. Her hand slides further around his back, or maybe his back is bending down closer to her hand.

"What's broken can always be fixed." Confident, in most things, mezmerised by others; he lightly rubs his thumb along her eyebrow. Maybe his arms are getting tired, or maybe there is something about her face pulling him downwards, but she is decidedly becoming less far away than before.

"What's fixed will always be broken", she retorts with a curl of her lip, knowing that a dull, distant ache will accompany her for a long time ahead. There will still be nightmares waking her up every once in a while. The notion is reflected in the eyes meeting hers, serious and inching closer.

"I'll spend the rest of my life fixing you", he states, nudging the tip of his nose to hers, the strange intimacy of the action sending jolts of tingling heat through her abdomen.

"You mean the rest of my life." Her words have taste, cheeky and sweet like her breath.

His lips brush over hers with the movement of final words:

"Do shut up."

When the Doctor finally does close his lips over Rose's the air leaves her. None of her bashful daydreams, secret ponderings or unwarranted nighttime wishes come close to the feeling of slow pecks, soft as a breeze, spread along her lipline, the corner of her mouth, out across her cheek. She blissfully turns her face to allow him access to the angle of her jaw, her cheekbone, her temple. It's not a kiss; it's a declaration of adoration. He ghosts over her ear, shallow breath tickling her inside and out. When he returns to her mouth she slides her fingers into his hair and catches his lips between hers, longing to taste him. The tip of her tongue darts out, teasingly, leaving a little wet spot quickly found and expanded by his own. Lips part, tongues tentatively meet. The mindful encounter soon turns into a slow, loving exploration. Rose positively melts in the sensation of hot, slick satin leisurely roaming her mouth.

The Doctor suddenly comes to a halt. He pulls back to look her in the eyes.

"I might keep you in a mausoleum", he informs her. Then he tries to return to kissing her before she has a chance to change her mind about it, resulting in the air violently exhaled by her laugh popping his ears. It's alright, doesn't even hurt, because the taste of Rose's mouth nulls every unpleasant feeling there could ever be. But it does make it a little hard to keep from laughing himself. He chuckles in the back of his throat, pushes his hands in underneath her and holds her to him while he straightens up, plopping down between her legs as he sits them both up. There's a look of dazed contentment on his face, he can feel it, and the novelty of letting what he feels shine through is wonderful. There is something topping it, though: seeing it reflected on the sweet face in front of him. He basks in the light in her eyes, all shining at him – him.

Her eyes darts to his crumpled tie and back then, and she speaks, as if needing to confirm what's going on.

"I'm, er... helplessly in love with you, yeah?"

The surprised laugh that escapes him even though he already knows is practically goofy.

"Yeah, me too." Strange, all-new and yet embarrassingly far-gone truth.

Rose worries her bottom lip. There's something else she needs to know, something to work out. She picks at a button on his shirt.

"What do we do then, how does this work? ...What am I?" She looks up, piercing his eyes with warmth and defiance and compassion and and he wants to blurt "Everything!" but knows that's not what she means. He tries to find the words for something he hasn't formed in his own mind yet -

"I want you to be my... my..."

(What? His partner, his 'girlfriend'? Some sort of... 'wife'?)

"...mine", he conludes. "You're mine."

- and fails. That's old, he always wanted her to be his. Just his. Rose gives him a look he can't immediately decipher, and it makes him a little nervous. He shifts to sit on his knees.

"Do you... Do you want me to be yours?"

The Doctor looks at her with her with more vulnerability behind the cocky gleam than she's ever seen and Rose doesn't know if she wants to bash him for the possessive statement or cradle him. Oh, 'his', is she? Well... yeah. No argument there, except for the sake of principle. Him, hers? The idea is too new, she almost can't fathom it. Almost. The whole situation would be a dream, except there's an unromantic cramp building up in her leg and she can feel the tingle of a stubble burn around her lips. It's real. But that question, so simple, so ridiculously obvious that she nearly forgets to answer:

"What do you think, you hatter?"

His lips are on hers before the last letter leaves them. Cradling her head with one hand, pulling her to him with the other: this kiss is different from the one before; desperately enthusiastic, hot and wanting. Rose wastes no time responding, wrapping her arms around his neck and following the pull of his arm around her waist to stand on her knees, molding herself to him. The caress of his hands sends surges of electricity across her skin, the hunger of his mouth sparks pulses of lust through her body and she can't help small whimpers slipping from the back of her throat. She can feel the erratic thumps of his hearts against her own, beating as if trying to break out of its cage to meet them. There is so much material between them, that doesn't seem right. She searches for an entrance and finds the lapel of his jacket, means to pull at it but is distracted by the sudden jolt of a hand grazing past her breast on its way down to her waist. The Doctor runs light fingers along the gap between her t-shirt and sweatpants, and for a moment she considers how very unattractive she must look right now. Baggy, washed out nightwear, eyes probably still puffy and red, mussed hair. He seems to sense the thought, and pulls back to look at her with a gaze so reverent she immediately snaps out of any such crazy ponderings. She proceeds to slip his jacket off while he proceeds kissing her senseless. The jacket stops halfway down his arms since they're wrapped around her, and the Doctor reluctantly lets go with one, flailing it behind him to try to shake the sleave off without losing contact with Rose's addictive lips. The center of balance shifts, gravity discreetly latches on, the mattress wobbles and with a final wave the Doctor falls off the bed with a crash.

A moment of frozen-hearted silence passes before Rose takes her hands from her mouth and leans over the edge to look at the damage. The Doctor landed bumping his head on the nightstand, leaving one foot on the bed and is now folded in between the two, holding still while he assesses the level of injury. Rose can't hold back a burst of laughter, and only barely quenches it at the sound of his sad "Ow."

"Oh, poor Doctor", she giggles. "You alright?"

"I'm always alright", he croaks.

"Babe", she chuckles, but it doesn't sit right with either of them and she goes back to "Doctor" at once. She helps him up to sit on the bed, wraps her arms around him and as a sudden wave of tender fear strikes her asks the crook of his neck: "Don't get hurt." He pledges not to. A kiss, a nip, finally clothes go flying.

Hours later Rose sleeps, the Doctor doesn't. He watches her quietly breathe, listens to everything she is, wishes her back closer, closest, inside and when she from the edges of her dreamscape unconscious whispers his name, he knows he is lost forever.

...

...

...

A/N: Sorry about that. My gahd, those two just wouldn't get to it! References: I've no idea how the Doctor feels about Star Wars but apparently he's not keen on the music, while they both seem to like Miss Congeniality. The line "What's broken can always be fixed, What's fixed will always be broken" is stolen from Jens Lekman's Your Arms Around Me, that you should all go out and listen to because it's magic. Thank you for reading, liking, reviewing and staying awesome.