fic; doctor who: Quantification of Apologies in Quarantine.
title: Quantification of Apologies in Quarantine.
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: TenToo/Rose.
rating: Adult.
words: 5,678.
notes: This was written to get the “locked in” square on my Trope Bingo card, and basically devolved into smut, but it’s my first square, and it still counts.
There is, because of course there is, intervention from the universe.
It's their first fight, their first big one anyway, and a day has passed, well, a night and a day, since that bridge in Cardiff and the Vapaxian.
They've been in a hotel room, in a zeppelin, and in a state of complete undress -- Rose Tyler so very, very naked that his neck goes hot, hours later, just thinking about it.
It wasn't for the usual reasons though, that nudity, and what he'd gotten in their place was a handful of observations on the unsexy nature of decontamination showers, and a stirring low in his abdomen that seemed to contradict them.
But there's not a lot of talking. There should be anger and confessions, forgiveness and whispered words.
Instead it's a tense ride back to the flat, Rose, with her cards to her chest, and the Doctor with his hand to his own, tapping out a steady rhythm on the right side.
A still-new nervous habit for a still-new nervous man.
When the cab drops them off, he thinks maybe she'll talk to him now. They're alone again finally, and she's probably had enough time to figure out how to really let him have. Because he deserves it, he sees that now.
But she's silent the whole lift ride, and all the way down the hall to the flat. Just inside the door, there's a pile of shoes, and he adds his trainers to it as Rose disappears into the kitchen.
They're all mixed up in a messy heap and, because he can, he mentally finds each shoe its mate.
It doesn't take very long.
"Tea?" Rose calls, her voice neutral, and he's not going to turn that down, not when it'll give him something to do with his hands.
Not when it's the first thing she's said to him in hours.
"Sure," he answers, and follows her path to the kitchen. "Why don't you let me make it?"
He tries for a smile, but if it looks like it feels, it comes out as an apologetic grimace.
She glances at him, right in the eye, and there's nothing there, no clues, no anger, nothing.
"Ta," she says, and leaves the kitchen.
It takes longer than it should to make tea, he's precise in everything, just to fill the time, water right to the line, carefully leveling off the sugar before he adds it.
When she comes back, she's in her pajamas, those sweatpants that are almost leggings, or those leggings that are almost sweatpants, he can never decide. He's always too occupied with the way they cling to her to even try. There's a t-shirt, too, a thin thing, with a v-neck, the lines of her collarbone taunting him, her skin still red from the thorough scrubbing it received.
He hands her a mug with another hesitant smile and she returns it, but it's not the smile she usually gives -- saves -- for him. No trace of tongue, no hint of teeth, just tight-lipped and polite. Like he's the postman, like he's the waiter.
It's somehow worse than yelling.
His own mug is still sitting on the counter and he'd used it deliberately. Rose had gotten it for him weeks ago, when he thought he might try a mustache. She had laughed, told him if he did, she wouldn't be fancying any rides on it, and bought the mug instead.
It's got a print of a big black handlebar mustache on it, and just last Tuesday, he'd sat at the table with it in front his face, talking in an old timey accent and listening to her laugh in reply. He misses her laugh.
"Gonna watch the telly," she says, and leaves him in the kitchen. It wasn't exactly an invitation, but it wasn't exactly not an invitation, and he grabs his mug and follows her out.
Settled on the sofa, he positions the mug just so, right in front his mouth again, because he's not above doing the greatest hits tour, but she barely looks at him.
He has to try.
The mug makes a noise when he puts it on the table and he picks it right back up, snagging a coaster before setting it back down. It's only flatpack furniture, but it's Rose's flatpack furniture, their flatpack furniture now, and he wants her to know he respects that.
After all, he's pretty sure that's what this whole thing is about.
"I respect you," he blurts out, and, oh, that could've been smoother.
Her head turns from the sitcom she'd put on, eyebrows raising as she looks at him.
"Do you?"
He nods quickly, "I do, Rose, I really do."
She takes a sip from her own mug before setting it aside. It's such a carefully neutral gesture, it completely unnerves him, and he spares a thought for all the poor sods she's ever interrogated.
"Wouldn't you say that actions speak louder than words? Isn't that the sort of thing you would say, the sort of man you are?"
It's unfurling right in front of him, this path she's leading him down, but he can't turn back, can't run, and he nods again.
"And wouldn't you say that refusing to listen to me about the instinctual attack habits of the Vapaxian female is a sign of disrespect?"
It's hard to get the word out, to push past all the rebuttals and excuses, but he does.
"Yes."
She shrugs, "Well, seems like you don't respect me then."
It's oddly casual, the whole exchange, and his tongue is itching to escalate it, clear the air, and be put to better use.
"Rose, you have to understand, I've dealt with Vapaxians before, loads of times, they're deadly, they are. I just didn't want to see you --"
She cuts him off, "You've dealt with them there, in the other universe. But you're here now, we're here, and sometimes things are different. Sometimes you can't protect me, and you have to trust that I can protect you."
He's about to reply when a whirring starts up. A quiet sound that grows to a buzz, and Rose is off the sofa in a matter of seconds, running to the door.
"No, no, no!" Her voice is raised, fingers scrambling at the lock, and then there's a click, loud like a gunshot, echoing through the room.
"Fuck!" She slams her hand on the door as he rushes to her side.
"What is it? What happened? What was that?"
If they're in danger, he needs to know, because he respects her, yes, but she's the only thing he's got, and he is also sure as hell going to protect her.
"We're locked in," she says, adrenaline deflating. "Quarantined, actually. I should have known."
It doesn't make any sense, they've been decontaminated and cleared, and they're home now.
"What? Why?"
She turns, pressing her back to the door and resting her head against it.
"Torchwood flat, Torchwood rules.
Vapaxian gas is harmless, we know that now, but the system doesn't, must've picked up a trace. We're in lockdown for 24 hours."
She pushes off the door, heading back to the bedroom, and he wants to follow her, but his brain is trying to process everything. They're quarantined?
Rose is back quickly, mobile pressed to her ear.
"Pete, Dad," she's saying. "I know the procedure, but there's got to be a manual override. We were on a zeppelin, for god's sake, if there were any danger, don't you think I wouldn't have left?"
Whatever Pete's response, it's not good, and Rose's face twists in anger.
"Fine," she says. "Do tell Mum we won't be 'round for lunch tomorrow then."
She signs off and hangs up, anger still brimming as she points a finger at the Doctor.
"In this universe, Vapaxian females spray a cloud of gas when provoked on a bridge in the middle of Cardiff," she says.
Well, yes, he knows that now, but --
"And in this universe, it's only recently been cleared as harmless, which means it's still processed as a threat by Torchwood security procedures. So, like I said --"
"Lockdown," he fills in, and it's a sad-sounding word, full of regret.
"Yes! Because you didn't trust me! We were in no danger! Not from the gas, not from whatever they do in the other universe, nothing! But you went charging in anyway, simple rescue and return, completely botched!"
His mouth is moving before he can stop it, "Not completely botched. Got her home safe in the end. Us, too."
He can see her clawing to lash out again, foot twitching like she wants to stomp it, a remnant of the fiery teenager she used to be. She calms herself though, and walks back to the sofa with measured steps.
Sitting down, she glances up at him once more.
"Yeah, we're home," she says. "We're stuck here."
He crosses to meet her on the sofa, gently nudging her knee with his own as he sits down.
"Yeah, but stuck with you? That's not so bad."
He can see her smile then, can tell it's in spite of herself.
"I'm still mad at you," she says.
"And I'm still sorry," he says.
They turn back to the television, but it's only a few seconds before she's speaking again.
"You'd run if you could, wouldn't you?"
Her head is still facing front, but she's got her eyes trained on him, waiting for an answer.
The truth is, he's thought about running a lot, about boarding a zeppelin, inventing an airplane, trainers to the pavement and off he goes, but it's never been more than just a thought, never been something he wants to put into action. Because he doesn't want to run if she's not beside him.
"I wouldn't," he says, and he means it.
She shifts to face him, "Liar."
"Rose, you have to trust me, too. I won't pretend I don't think about it, all those things just waiting to be explored," he grabs for her hand, pleased at the way her fingers fit around his own on reflex. "But it wouldn't be the same without this," he holds up their joined hands.
The fight seems to seep out of her then, her head lolling back against the couch.
"What do you think we should do?" She asks, fingers scratching against the back of his hand.
"Let's take a trip, have an adventure, somewhere you love, somewhere you've always wanted to go," he says. "Let's save a book club from the perils of bad literature, let's stop an ant infestation in the middle of New Jersey, let's find a stretch of road and drive as fast as we can and flirt with a cop to get out of the ticket," he's winding himself up, can see it all, all the things they can do, small things turned big, and Rose is smiling at him, a real one this time.
"I meant now," she says. "Stuck here."
"Oh. Well," he scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand. "I knew that. I was just --"
"You were being you. And I want all those things, I want to do them with you, but, Doctor, you're going to have to listen to me if I tell you the ants in this universe can only be killed by grape juice."
His eyes widen, "What, seriously?"
She laughs, "No, I don't know, maybe. Listen, we're gonna be fine, but I need you to promise that we're in this together."
He tightens the grip of his hand around hers, "I promise."
"And I need you to promise you're not going to cheat at cards."
They both know he's lying when he agrees to that, too.
Six hours, two cups of tea, and four card games later, and things are mostly back to normal. He can feel the fight in the air, a shadow still hanging around them, but it feels natural, somehow. They've argued and put it aside, they've fought and continued on.
It feels like a relationship.
And it's mostly followed the blueprint he's assembled, except there's one thing he's never gotten to try, one thing that always seemed exotic and promising.
Make up sex, he decides, that's what they need.
But how to get there?
They've already passed the fiery anger stage, he's missed his chance to pin her up against the wall, stop her yelling and press his mouth to hers until they both feel better.
There's already been promises, too, and he sees, he knows now, that he should've sealed them with a kiss, one with lots of tongue.
What's next, what's missing? Tearful confessions and heartfelt apologies and before he knows it, he's shaking her awake from her nap on the sofa.
"What? What is it? Is the door open?" She rubs at her eyes, focusing on him.
"No, it's not, I think I made it worse actually, went at it with a screwdriver," he says. "But, Rose, I need to tell you something."
She's alert now, sitting straight up, "Go on," she says, voice guarded.
"I think we maybe skipped a step. After I confess to my sins, and you forgive me, there's certain things I think that humans do. And I want to do them," he pauses and takes a deep breath. "Are we outside of the window for make up sex?"
A laugh bubbles up out of her, "I don't think there are hard rules for that."
He nods, he expected this, and he has a plan.
"All right, Rose Tyler," he says. "I have something to confess, and then you can forgive me, and we can go to the bedroom. Sound good?"
"Depends on what you're confessing," she says. "If you're finally going to own up to what you did to my favorite dress, then I might need some to time to process it."
He shakes his head, "I told you, the washing machine did that."
"And who put it in the washing machine?"
He doesn't miss a beat.
"Aliens."
She laughs again, "An alien, Doctor, really, those labels are there for a reason and --"
He blurts it out then, a string of rapid fire words, "I once stole a chocolate bar on Gastridon 7."
"You what?"
A deep breath and he begins again, "I was hungry, starving, really, blood sugar crashing, low energy, all of it, and I just -- I ate a chocolate bar in a shop, and then I got so distracted that I forgot to pay," he pauses. "And I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"
She tilts her head, processing, "You want me to forgive you for stealing a chocolate bar on a planet I know for a fact you went on to save from destruction?"
"Yep," he chirps. "And then I want to have make up sex."
Her words are slow, like she can't believe this happening, "All right, I, uh, forgive you. You're forgiven."
"Brilliant!" And with that, he's stretching across the sofa, leaning in to kiss her.
He tries to decide on the right pace, the right speed and technique. They've gotten awfully good at this over the last month or two, give and take, anticipate and surprise, all of it a completely brilliant time.
He's supposed to be apologizing or confessing or something, he's sort of lost the plot a bit, with the way her hand is tangled in his hair, and the way her tongue feels sliding against his.
It's supposed to be about her though, he remembers that much, and as her free hand skims down to the buckle of his belt, he brushes it away.
He pulls his mouth back from hers, shifting off the sofa and reaching to help her up.
"Plenty of time of time for that later," he says, pulling her toward their bedroom. "There's atoning to be done!"
It's dark in the bedroom, but he turns on every light he can find, dashing from the switch to both bedside lamps, the room brightening immediately.
When she raises her eyebrows at him, he winks back, "Need you to be able to see how sorry I am."
Really it's that he needs to see her. A few weeks ago, and a shag in the living room, the sunlight pouring in through the windows, and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. The way her face looked, the brush of her hands against her breasts as he buried his mouth between her legs, Rose Tyler like he'd never seen before, and like he wants to see her for the rest of their lives.
When he joins her where she's standing at the foot of the bed, she's giving him that look, the one that means she doesn't quite understand where they're going, but that she's happy enough to be along for the ride.
"I'm gonna take your clothes off now, all right?"
She smirks at him and lifts a finger to point at his mouth, "Gonna be running that the whole time?"
He grins back -- of course he is, she loves it when he does, told him so herself, in one particularly lazy afterglow. Plus, it's not just him with the gob, at least in the bedroom, and they both know it.
"Yep," he says. "Gonna make sure you hear what it is I'm sorry for, too."
He sets his hands on her waist, fingers curling into the bottom of her t-shirt before tugging it up.
"This is for leaving dirty dishes in the sink," he says, and she smiles and lifts the shirt the rest of the way off.
His hands return to her hips, dipping into the waist of her sweatpants and pulling them down. He sinks to his knees to help her remove them, dropping a stray kiss on her thigh as her hands knot in his hair.
"This is for hanging up on your mum," he kisses her leg again, punctuating each word with another one, "All. Six. Times."
He looks up in time to see her roll her eyes, still smiling down at him, and, god, if he could just keep that image forever.
Rising back up to his feet, he palms each breast lightly, thumbs rubbing light circles over her nipples, "This is just a bonus," he says. "For not putting on a bra when you changed."
She relaxes into the motion, head lolling back on her neck, eyes slipping shut as he presses against her more firmly before moving his hands to cup her shoulders.
He turns her, walking her the short distance to the end of the bed before nudging her to sit down on it. He nods toward the headboard and she shimmies up toward it, resting her weight on her elbows behind her as she looks at him expectantly.
He lifts the bottom of his t-shirt and the thermal he's wearing underneath, pulling it over his head and folding it neatly on the edge of the bed.
"That's for not thanking you for buying me such nice clothing," he says, and moves his hands to the fly of his jeans, shucking and folding those as well as his socks. "And for not pushing when I didn't want suits."
She nods her head slightly, acknowledging the man he's becoming, and the man he started as.
He wants to tell her he appreciates that, the way she hasn't pushed him on much, only when he's really needed it, the way she's let him find out all about this new new new Doctor, and kept him company in the process.
The words won't come though, and he's about to apologize for that, too, when she points her foot at him, toes angled at the erection tenting the front of his boxer briefs.
"And what's that for?"
He doesn't hesitate, not even a moment, "For you, always for you."
Moving to kneel at her feet, he lifts her legs, spreading them slightly, and shifting into the space he's created.
His eyes skate over her body, so many places he wants to touch, and, if the way she's looking at him is any indication, so many places she wants him to.
"Thought this was about a stolen chocolate bar?" She says when he rests his hands on her thighs and doesn't move further.
"Oh, of course! You're right!" He scratches his fingers up to the top of her knickers. "This is for that, then." He tugs her knickers down, shifting himself up to get them off before returning to his position. "I'm very sorry for nicking that chocolate bar."
She looks down her body, naked on the comforter, and he hopes she appreciates the view half as much as he does
"So you've somehow apologized your way into taking all my clothes off," her tone is light, conversational, and he's always so grateful for that, the way they can just keep being them, even when in striking distance of a shag. He's not sure he could handle it, having to reinvent himself every time they went to the bedroom -- he's done enough reinventing in his life. "What's left to apologize for?"
"Loads, Rose Tyler, just buckets and buckets of things."
Leaning down, he drops his lips to hers, pleased with the way she's allowing him to set the pace, though he knows that won't last for long.
He nips at her bottom lip, before moving to press a kiss to the top one. He tilts his head further, adjusting so he can open his mouth against hers, before sweeping his tongue past her lips.
Kissing Rose is every bit as unpredictable as doing anything else with Rose, and she slips her tongue against his, hands moving to his cheeks as she takes control of the kiss. She gets in a few good, deep, messy swipes of her tongue, and then she's easing off again, her body squirming underneath his.
He uses the control to break from the kiss, pressing a series of them instead down the column of her throat. He traces her collarbone with his tongue, out and back, before moving to the join of her neck and shoulder.
There was -- there is -- a button on the TARDIS that does nothing but cause an uncontrollable shaking of the ship, useful for dislodging errant tagalongs, and this spot is that button on Rose.
He bites down harder than instinct would tell him to, but Rose has told him different before, hands flying to his hair to keep him in place, as she bucks and moans underneath him. It works the same as always, and he focuses on the skin there, sucking and licking and biting, until she's panting below him, a red mark swimming to the surface when he finally pulls away.
"That," he says, and Rose lolls her head on her neck, exposing more skin he can't help pressing a quick kiss to before speaking again, "Is for eating the last biscuit. And then lying about it."
She swats him on the arse, "I knew it!"
He grins at her and slips down her body, pausing to kiss her breasts, tongue tracing the ridge of each nipple in turn, teeth grazing the edges of them as her fingers curl into the skin of his back.
Continuing on, he licks a line down her torso, and his tongue skims the soft, slight swell of her abdomen before he's distracted by the curve of her hipbones, the angles of them as she squirms beneath him. He presses a hard kiss to the one on his left, sucking until there's a mark right at the highest point, and then he repeats the movement on the opposite hip, some ancient part of him simultaneously pleased with the symmetry and horrified at what he's doing.
Her hands move to rest in lightly in his hair, tightening their grip as he moves further still. He looks up, locks their eyes, as he hovers over her, and the smell, the sight, the feel of her, it's all too much, and he can't help but grin.
"Let's call this next bit an apology for the bridge," he says, and it all feels like ages ago now, the fight, the fall out, the path to this making up. "Because I am sorry about it."
She smiles at him, and he speaks again.
"I am not, however, sorry to be locked in here with you, doing this," and he moves lower, tongue swiping slow and deliberate between her legs. She's wet, and the stupid, silly pride he feels every time he gets her that way swims to the surface.
Her fingers are brushing lightly over his head, through his hair, before she moves them to curl around the backs of his ears, and somewhere deep inside of him, a man with a much more prominent set reaches for the touch.
That man, though, didn't have the tongue this one has, and he has the unique sensation of feeling superior to himself. That man would've needed his fingers, too, if they'd ever gotten this far, but this man is going to make Rose come with just his tongue.
He licks against her again, slowly, bottom to top, pausing to circle briefly around her clit, and she arches up into his mouth, trying to force the friction, the pressure she wants. He pulls back with a grin, because he'll give it to her, of course he will, but he's going to take his time first.
"Not yet," he says, and she rolls her head back and forth on the pillow, disagreeing, agreeing, he can't tell, and instead of asking, he moves forward again, tongue dipping inside her as she moans above him.
He can't stop looking at her in this position, eyes darting across her body as her own slip shut. She's beautiful and he doesn't even want to blink, thinks briefly of a planet where the inhabitants never have to, and then he's stroking against her again, in, out, shallow, deep, never setting a rhythm, never pushing her over the edge.
Her back keeps lifting up off the mattress, little half-starts that are a preview of the way she'll rocket up when she comes, grasping at his head for more, for less, shouting profanities and breathing hard.
He steps up the pace, dipping deeper, tongue curling, and everything's so wet, her, him, the patch of fabric he can feel on the front of his boxer briefs, it's sweat and spit and Rose herself and he is never going to get enough.
He darts another glance up at her, and when had he looked away? A mistake not to be repeated.
He can see the soft, rolling sound waves of her ribs, and he's sure if he played them, it would be an opera to bring the Met to its knees.
The curves of her breasts, too, and he lifts his hands from where they'd been resting on her hips, following along with their shallow movements, and cups both breasts in tandem. It distracts him from the rhythm he'd set with his mouth and she notices, batting his hands away, "Now, now, now," she pleads.
He complies, tongue slipping from inside her to begin a steady pulse on her clit, he works at it, speeding the movement, increasing the pressure, suction with his mouth and friction with his tongue and then she's arching up off the bed, keening as she snaps into a near upright position and tugging at his hair.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Her voice is loud, the words punctuating each wave he can feel pulsing through her, and he eases off, gentling his movements, as she squirms first toward him and then away.
He'd be content to stay down here, busying himself with the smooth skin of her thighs, until she's ready for his mouth again, but she's tugging at him, fingers fanning out to get a grip that pulls him to rise over her.
There's no stopping the grin that crawls across his face, the smug, satisfied expression of a job well done, and she laughs at him.
"Your lucky you're so good at that," she says, still trying to catch her breath. "Or that ego would be completely insufferable."
He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, a poor job of clean up that means there's definitely still the taste of her left behind when he leans down to kiss her. She doesn't seem bothered by it, never has, and he busies himself with spreading it across her tongue as she settles his hips more firmly between her legs.
She bucks up into him, the feeling dulled by the thin fabric of his pants, and he shifts off her to remove them.
"You love my ego," he says, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxer briefs and tugging them off. "And you're gonna help make it bigger here in a second."
She rolls her eyes, but spreads her legs, locking them around his hips when he settles on top of her again.
Her hand drops between them, gripping his erection, and he lets out a rough sound at the feel of it. Then she's positioning him, the head of his cock right at her entrance.
"I love you," he says, and he can't contain the grin on his face, the inanity of life, and how happy he is at where his ended up. He pushes forward, sliding into her on a breath. "And that's for not saying it sooner."
She wraps her arms around, tugging him down in a tight hug.
"We got there in the end," she says, voice low in his ear. "And I love you, too."
He tilts his head, turning to press a kiss to her temple, and pushes himself up to brace his weight on his forearms. He rolls his hips once, a grunt half-escaping from his mouth.
"This," he says, and arches into her again, "Is for all the things I haven't done yet."
He sets a hard rhythm, short, fast strokes, the way it always is when he's used his mouth on her first. That winds him up more than nearly anything else, all those noises, the feel of her. In a different life, a different body, he could've come from that alone, the way he's sure she's broadcasting all those feelings and he just doesn't have the hardware to pick them up anymore.
It was a good trade though, he thinks, as her nails dig into the round of his shoulder, her other hand knotted tightly in his hair.
She arches up beneath him, meeting him on his strokes and, oh, it was a fucking brilliant trade.
He shifts, changing the angle enough that the friction's perfect for both of them, and she's calling out underneath him, "Like that, yeah, like that, right there, right there --" and she comes, words lost to shouts and the feel of her body tensing beneath his. He can't hold on, doesn't want to hold on, and then he's pounding into her, sloppy, rough movements that she encourages even as her body still shudders below.
"That feels so fucking good," she's panting the words in his ear and his head spins with the sound of them.
"Yeah?" It's all he can manage, but he wants more, needs more, and she keeps talking as his orgasm builds, twining tighter and tighter.
"Always so good," she says. "It's always so good, love the way you feel, the way you smell, your cock," and she drops her voice, drawing the word out, filthy and perfect, tongue wrapping around the hard consonants, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and she's still going, "I" -- she raises her hips to meet his -- "Love" -- and again -- "Your" -- last one -- "Cock."
He snaps, coming, a long, low grunt, the noise and the feel and the emotion, all of it spreading out in his veins in triple-time as he empties himself into her.
Her fingers scratch across his back as he floats down, dropping his weight to rest on her.
"Apology accepted," she says in his ear, and he grins against the skin of her neck, mouth dropping for one more go at that spot where it joins her shoulder, and she arches into him, body shuddering like he's triggered an aftershock.
She shifts underneath him a few minutes later, after their heartbeats have slowed, and he rolls off of her. She pushes herself up off the bed, a shaky-legged walk that has his ego ballooning again as she makes her way into the en suite.
It's only a short walk to the spare loo, and he forces himself to make it and clean up. They'll probably go to bed for the night now, and he's exhausted enough to want to, but they've been woken up by an emergency from Pete too many times in their short life here to not at least make an effort to put himself back together.
He tries the front door on his walk back from the loo and it's still locked, so even if there is an emergency, they won't be much help.
The room is dark again when he gets back, only the moonlight now, and he can make out Rose on the bed, clad in just her knickers and shifting the covers beneath her as she struggles to get under them without standing back up.
"Here, let me help," he says, and tugs the comforter down as she arches off of it. She slips into the sheets and he joins her, tugging all the covers up around them and rolling to his back so she can pillow her head on his chest.
"Still have half a day of lock in left," she mumbles sleepily into his chest. "Gonna think up more things to apologize for?"
He shifts his head down and presses a kiss to her hair.
"Even if I have to make them up."
fandom: Doctor Who.
pairing: TenToo/Rose.
rating: Adult.
words: 5,678.
notes: This was written to get the “locked in” square on my Trope Bingo card, and basically devolved into smut, but it’s my first square, and it still counts.
There is, because of course there is, intervention from the universe.
It's their first fight, their first big one anyway, and a day has passed, well, a night and a day, since that bridge in Cardiff and the Vapaxian.
They've been in a hotel room, in a zeppelin, and in a state of complete undress -- Rose Tyler so very, very naked that his neck goes hot, hours later, just thinking about it.
It wasn't for the usual reasons though, that nudity, and what he'd gotten in their place was a handful of observations on the unsexy nature of decontamination showers, and a stirring low in his abdomen that seemed to contradict them.
But there's not a lot of talking. There should be anger and confessions, forgiveness and whispered words.
Instead it's a tense ride back to the flat, Rose, with her cards to her chest, and the Doctor with his hand to his own, tapping out a steady rhythm on the right side.
A still-new nervous habit for a still-new nervous man.
When the cab drops them off, he thinks maybe she'll talk to him now. They're alone again finally, and she's probably had enough time to figure out how to really let him have. Because he deserves it, he sees that now.
But she's silent the whole lift ride, and all the way down the hall to the flat. Just inside the door, there's a pile of shoes, and he adds his trainers to it as Rose disappears into the kitchen.
They're all mixed up in a messy heap and, because he can, he mentally finds each shoe its mate.
It doesn't take very long.
"Tea?" Rose calls, her voice neutral, and he's not going to turn that down, not when it'll give him something to do with his hands.
Not when it's the first thing she's said to him in hours.
"Sure," he answers, and follows her path to the kitchen. "Why don't you let me make it?"
He tries for a smile, but if it looks like it feels, it comes out as an apologetic grimace.
She glances at him, right in the eye, and there's nothing there, no clues, no anger, nothing.
"Ta," she says, and leaves the kitchen.
It takes longer than it should to make tea, he's precise in everything, just to fill the time, water right to the line, carefully leveling off the sugar before he adds it.
When she comes back, she's in her pajamas, those sweatpants that are almost leggings, or those leggings that are almost sweatpants, he can never decide. He's always too occupied with the way they cling to her to even try. There's a t-shirt, too, a thin thing, with a v-neck, the lines of her collarbone taunting him, her skin still red from the thorough scrubbing it received.
He hands her a mug with another hesitant smile and she returns it, but it's not the smile she usually gives -- saves -- for him. No trace of tongue, no hint of teeth, just tight-lipped and polite. Like he's the postman, like he's the waiter.
It's somehow worse than yelling.
His own mug is still sitting on the counter and he'd used it deliberately. Rose had gotten it for him weeks ago, when he thought he might try a mustache. She had laughed, told him if he did, she wouldn't be fancying any rides on it, and bought the mug instead.
It's got a print of a big black handlebar mustache on it, and just last Tuesday, he'd sat at the table with it in front his face, talking in an old timey accent and listening to her laugh in reply. He misses her laugh.
"Gonna watch the telly," she says, and leaves him in the kitchen. It wasn't exactly an invitation, but it wasn't exactly not an invitation, and he grabs his mug and follows her out.
Settled on the sofa, he positions the mug just so, right in front his mouth again, because he's not above doing the greatest hits tour, but she barely looks at him.
He has to try.
The mug makes a noise when he puts it on the table and he picks it right back up, snagging a coaster before setting it back down. It's only flatpack furniture, but it's Rose's flatpack furniture, their flatpack furniture now, and he wants her to know he respects that.
After all, he's pretty sure that's what this whole thing is about.
"I respect you," he blurts out, and, oh, that could've been smoother.
Her head turns from the sitcom she'd put on, eyebrows raising as she looks at him.
"Do you?"
He nods quickly, "I do, Rose, I really do."
She takes a sip from her own mug before setting it aside. It's such a carefully neutral gesture, it completely unnerves him, and he spares a thought for all the poor sods she's ever interrogated.
"Wouldn't you say that actions speak louder than words? Isn't that the sort of thing you would say, the sort of man you are?"
It's unfurling right in front of him, this path she's leading him down, but he can't turn back, can't run, and he nods again.
"And wouldn't you say that refusing to listen to me about the instinctual attack habits of the Vapaxian female is a sign of disrespect?"
It's hard to get the word out, to push past all the rebuttals and excuses, but he does.
"Yes."
She shrugs, "Well, seems like you don't respect me then."
It's oddly casual, the whole exchange, and his tongue is itching to escalate it, clear the air, and be put to better use.
"Rose, you have to understand, I've dealt with Vapaxians before, loads of times, they're deadly, they are. I just didn't want to see you --"
She cuts him off, "You've dealt with them there, in the other universe. But you're here now, we're here, and sometimes things are different. Sometimes you can't protect me, and you have to trust that I can protect you."
He's about to reply when a whirring starts up. A quiet sound that grows to a buzz, and Rose is off the sofa in a matter of seconds, running to the door.
"No, no, no!" Her voice is raised, fingers scrambling at the lock, and then there's a click, loud like a gunshot, echoing through the room.
"Fuck!" She slams her hand on the door as he rushes to her side.
"What is it? What happened? What was that?"
If they're in danger, he needs to know, because he respects her, yes, but she's the only thing he's got, and he is also sure as hell going to protect her.
"We're locked in," she says, adrenaline deflating. "Quarantined, actually. I should have known."
It doesn't make any sense, they've been decontaminated and cleared, and they're home now.
"What? Why?"
She turns, pressing her back to the door and resting her head against it.
"Torchwood flat, Torchwood rules.
Vapaxian gas is harmless, we know that now, but the system doesn't, must've picked up a trace. We're in lockdown for 24 hours."
She pushes off the door, heading back to the bedroom, and he wants to follow her, but his brain is trying to process everything. They're quarantined?
Rose is back quickly, mobile pressed to her ear.
"Pete, Dad," she's saying. "I know the procedure, but there's got to be a manual override. We were on a zeppelin, for god's sake, if there were any danger, don't you think I wouldn't have left?"
Whatever Pete's response, it's not good, and Rose's face twists in anger.
"Fine," she says. "Do tell Mum we won't be 'round for lunch tomorrow then."
She signs off and hangs up, anger still brimming as she points a finger at the Doctor.
"In this universe, Vapaxian females spray a cloud of gas when provoked on a bridge in the middle of Cardiff," she says.
Well, yes, he knows that now, but --
"And in this universe, it's only recently been cleared as harmless, which means it's still processed as a threat by Torchwood security procedures. So, like I said --"
"Lockdown," he fills in, and it's a sad-sounding word, full of regret.
"Yes! Because you didn't trust me! We were in no danger! Not from the gas, not from whatever they do in the other universe, nothing! But you went charging in anyway, simple rescue and return, completely botched!"
His mouth is moving before he can stop it, "Not completely botched. Got her home safe in the end. Us, too."
He can see her clawing to lash out again, foot twitching like she wants to stomp it, a remnant of the fiery teenager she used to be. She calms herself though, and walks back to the sofa with measured steps.
Sitting down, she glances up at him once more.
"Yeah, we're home," she says. "We're stuck here."
He crosses to meet her on the sofa, gently nudging her knee with his own as he sits down.
"Yeah, but stuck with you? That's not so bad."
He can see her smile then, can tell it's in spite of herself.
"I'm still mad at you," she says.
"And I'm still sorry," he says.
They turn back to the television, but it's only a few seconds before she's speaking again.
"You'd run if you could, wouldn't you?"
Her head is still facing front, but she's got her eyes trained on him, waiting for an answer.
The truth is, he's thought about running a lot, about boarding a zeppelin, inventing an airplane, trainers to the pavement and off he goes, but it's never been more than just a thought, never been something he wants to put into action. Because he doesn't want to run if she's not beside him.
"I wouldn't," he says, and he means it.
She shifts to face him, "Liar."
"Rose, you have to trust me, too. I won't pretend I don't think about it, all those things just waiting to be explored," he grabs for her hand, pleased at the way her fingers fit around his own on reflex. "But it wouldn't be the same without this," he holds up their joined hands.
The fight seems to seep out of her then, her head lolling back against the couch.
"What do you think we should do?" She asks, fingers scratching against the back of his hand.
"Let's take a trip, have an adventure, somewhere you love, somewhere you've always wanted to go," he says. "Let's save a book club from the perils of bad literature, let's stop an ant infestation in the middle of New Jersey, let's find a stretch of road and drive as fast as we can and flirt with a cop to get out of the ticket," he's winding himself up, can see it all, all the things they can do, small things turned big, and Rose is smiling at him, a real one this time.
"I meant now," she says. "Stuck here."
"Oh. Well," he scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand. "I knew that. I was just --"
"You were being you. And I want all those things, I want to do them with you, but, Doctor, you're going to have to listen to me if I tell you the ants in this universe can only be killed by grape juice."
His eyes widen, "What, seriously?"
She laughs, "No, I don't know, maybe. Listen, we're gonna be fine, but I need you to promise that we're in this together."
He tightens the grip of his hand around hers, "I promise."
"And I need you to promise you're not going to cheat at cards."
They both know he's lying when he agrees to that, too.
Six hours, two cups of tea, and four card games later, and things are mostly back to normal. He can feel the fight in the air, a shadow still hanging around them, but it feels natural, somehow. They've argued and put it aside, they've fought and continued on.
It feels like a relationship.
And it's mostly followed the blueprint he's assembled, except there's one thing he's never gotten to try, one thing that always seemed exotic and promising.
Make up sex, he decides, that's what they need.
But how to get there?
They've already passed the fiery anger stage, he's missed his chance to pin her up against the wall, stop her yelling and press his mouth to hers until they both feel better.
There's already been promises, too, and he sees, he knows now, that he should've sealed them with a kiss, one with lots of tongue.
What's next, what's missing? Tearful confessions and heartfelt apologies and before he knows it, he's shaking her awake from her nap on the sofa.
"What? What is it? Is the door open?" She rubs at her eyes, focusing on him.
"No, it's not, I think I made it worse actually, went at it with a screwdriver," he says. "But, Rose, I need to tell you something."
She's alert now, sitting straight up, "Go on," she says, voice guarded.
"I think we maybe skipped a step. After I confess to my sins, and you forgive me, there's certain things I think that humans do. And I want to do them," he pauses and takes a deep breath. "Are we outside of the window for make up sex?"
A laugh bubbles up out of her, "I don't think there are hard rules for that."
He nods, he expected this, and he has a plan.
"All right, Rose Tyler," he says. "I have something to confess, and then you can forgive me, and we can go to the bedroom. Sound good?"
"Depends on what you're confessing," she says. "If you're finally going to own up to what you did to my favorite dress, then I might need some to time to process it."
He shakes his head, "I told you, the washing machine did that."
"And who put it in the washing machine?"
He doesn't miss a beat.
"Aliens."
She laughs again, "An alien, Doctor, really, those labels are there for a reason and --"
He blurts it out then, a string of rapid fire words, "I once stole a chocolate bar on Gastridon 7."
"You what?"
A deep breath and he begins again, "I was hungry, starving, really, blood sugar crashing, low energy, all of it, and I just -- I ate a chocolate bar in a shop, and then I got so distracted that I forgot to pay," he pauses. "And I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"
She tilts her head, processing, "You want me to forgive you for stealing a chocolate bar on a planet I know for a fact you went on to save from destruction?"
"Yep," he chirps. "And then I want to have make up sex."
Her words are slow, like she can't believe this happening, "All right, I, uh, forgive you. You're forgiven."
"Brilliant!" And with that, he's stretching across the sofa, leaning in to kiss her.
He tries to decide on the right pace, the right speed and technique. They've gotten awfully good at this over the last month or two, give and take, anticipate and surprise, all of it a completely brilliant time.
He's supposed to be apologizing or confessing or something, he's sort of lost the plot a bit, with the way her hand is tangled in his hair, and the way her tongue feels sliding against his.
It's supposed to be about her though, he remembers that much, and as her free hand skims down to the buckle of his belt, he brushes it away.
He pulls his mouth back from hers, shifting off the sofa and reaching to help her up.
"Plenty of time of time for that later," he says, pulling her toward their bedroom. "There's atoning to be done!"
It's dark in the bedroom, but he turns on every light he can find, dashing from the switch to both bedside lamps, the room brightening immediately.
When she raises her eyebrows at him, he winks back, "Need you to be able to see how sorry I am."
Really it's that he needs to see her. A few weeks ago, and a shag in the living room, the sunlight pouring in through the windows, and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. The way her face looked, the brush of her hands against her breasts as he buried his mouth between her legs, Rose Tyler like he'd never seen before, and like he wants to see her for the rest of their lives.
When he joins her where she's standing at the foot of the bed, she's giving him that look, the one that means she doesn't quite understand where they're going, but that she's happy enough to be along for the ride.
"I'm gonna take your clothes off now, all right?"
She smirks at him and lifts a finger to point at his mouth, "Gonna be running that the whole time?"
He grins back -- of course he is, she loves it when he does, told him so herself, in one particularly lazy afterglow. Plus, it's not just him with the gob, at least in the bedroom, and they both know it.
"Yep," he says. "Gonna make sure you hear what it is I'm sorry for, too."
He sets his hands on her waist, fingers curling into the bottom of her t-shirt before tugging it up.
"This is for leaving dirty dishes in the sink," he says, and she smiles and lifts the shirt the rest of the way off.
His hands return to her hips, dipping into the waist of her sweatpants and pulling them down. He sinks to his knees to help her remove them, dropping a stray kiss on her thigh as her hands knot in his hair.
"This is for hanging up on your mum," he kisses her leg again, punctuating each word with another one, "All. Six. Times."
He looks up in time to see her roll her eyes, still smiling down at him, and, god, if he could just keep that image forever.
Rising back up to his feet, he palms each breast lightly, thumbs rubbing light circles over her nipples, "This is just a bonus," he says. "For not putting on a bra when you changed."
She relaxes into the motion, head lolling back on her neck, eyes slipping shut as he presses against her more firmly before moving his hands to cup her shoulders.
He turns her, walking her the short distance to the end of the bed before nudging her to sit down on it. He nods toward the headboard and she shimmies up toward it, resting her weight on her elbows behind her as she looks at him expectantly.
He lifts the bottom of his t-shirt and the thermal he's wearing underneath, pulling it over his head and folding it neatly on the edge of the bed.
"That's for not thanking you for buying me such nice clothing," he says, and moves his hands to the fly of his jeans, shucking and folding those as well as his socks. "And for not pushing when I didn't want suits."
She nods her head slightly, acknowledging the man he's becoming, and the man he started as.
He wants to tell her he appreciates that, the way she hasn't pushed him on much, only when he's really needed it, the way she's let him find out all about this new new new Doctor, and kept him company in the process.
The words won't come though, and he's about to apologize for that, too, when she points her foot at him, toes angled at the erection tenting the front of his boxer briefs.
"And what's that for?"
He doesn't hesitate, not even a moment, "For you, always for you."
Moving to kneel at her feet, he lifts her legs, spreading them slightly, and shifting into the space he's created.
His eyes skate over her body, so many places he wants to touch, and, if the way she's looking at him is any indication, so many places she wants him to.
"Thought this was about a stolen chocolate bar?" She says when he rests his hands on her thighs and doesn't move further.
"Oh, of course! You're right!" He scratches his fingers up to the top of her knickers. "This is for that, then." He tugs her knickers down, shifting himself up to get them off before returning to his position. "I'm very sorry for nicking that chocolate bar."
She looks down her body, naked on the comforter, and he hopes she appreciates the view half as much as he does
"So you've somehow apologized your way into taking all my clothes off," her tone is light, conversational, and he's always so grateful for that, the way they can just keep being them, even when in striking distance of a shag. He's not sure he could handle it, having to reinvent himself every time they went to the bedroom -- he's done enough reinventing in his life. "What's left to apologize for?"
"Loads, Rose Tyler, just buckets and buckets of things."
Leaning down, he drops his lips to hers, pleased with the way she's allowing him to set the pace, though he knows that won't last for long.
He nips at her bottom lip, before moving to press a kiss to the top one. He tilts his head further, adjusting so he can open his mouth against hers, before sweeping his tongue past her lips.
Kissing Rose is every bit as unpredictable as doing anything else with Rose, and she slips her tongue against his, hands moving to his cheeks as she takes control of the kiss. She gets in a few good, deep, messy swipes of her tongue, and then she's easing off again, her body squirming underneath his.
He uses the control to break from the kiss, pressing a series of them instead down the column of her throat. He traces her collarbone with his tongue, out and back, before moving to the join of her neck and shoulder.
There was -- there is -- a button on the TARDIS that does nothing but cause an uncontrollable shaking of the ship, useful for dislodging errant tagalongs, and this spot is that button on Rose.
He bites down harder than instinct would tell him to, but Rose has told him different before, hands flying to his hair to keep him in place, as she bucks and moans underneath him. It works the same as always, and he focuses on the skin there, sucking and licking and biting, until she's panting below him, a red mark swimming to the surface when he finally pulls away.
"That," he says, and Rose lolls her head on her neck, exposing more skin he can't help pressing a quick kiss to before speaking again, "Is for eating the last biscuit. And then lying about it."
She swats him on the arse, "I knew it!"
He grins at her and slips down her body, pausing to kiss her breasts, tongue tracing the ridge of each nipple in turn, teeth grazing the edges of them as her fingers curl into the skin of his back.
Continuing on, he licks a line down her torso, and his tongue skims the soft, slight swell of her abdomen before he's distracted by the curve of her hipbones, the angles of them as she squirms beneath him. He presses a hard kiss to the one on his left, sucking until there's a mark right at the highest point, and then he repeats the movement on the opposite hip, some ancient part of him simultaneously pleased with the symmetry and horrified at what he's doing.
Her hands move to rest in lightly in his hair, tightening their grip as he moves further still. He looks up, locks their eyes, as he hovers over her, and the smell, the sight, the feel of her, it's all too much, and he can't help but grin.
"Let's call this next bit an apology for the bridge," he says, and it all feels like ages ago now, the fight, the fall out, the path to this making up. "Because I am sorry about it."
She smiles at him, and he speaks again.
"I am not, however, sorry to be locked in here with you, doing this," and he moves lower, tongue swiping slow and deliberate between her legs. She's wet, and the stupid, silly pride he feels every time he gets her that way swims to the surface.
Her fingers are brushing lightly over his head, through his hair, before she moves them to curl around the backs of his ears, and somewhere deep inside of him, a man with a much more prominent set reaches for the touch.
That man, though, didn't have the tongue this one has, and he has the unique sensation of feeling superior to himself. That man would've needed his fingers, too, if they'd ever gotten this far, but this man is going to make Rose come with just his tongue.
He licks against her again, slowly, bottom to top, pausing to circle briefly around her clit, and she arches up into his mouth, trying to force the friction, the pressure she wants. He pulls back with a grin, because he'll give it to her, of course he will, but he's going to take his time first.
"Not yet," he says, and she rolls her head back and forth on the pillow, disagreeing, agreeing, he can't tell, and instead of asking, he moves forward again, tongue dipping inside her as she moans above him.
He can't stop looking at her in this position, eyes darting across her body as her own slip shut. She's beautiful and he doesn't even want to blink, thinks briefly of a planet where the inhabitants never have to, and then he's stroking against her again, in, out, shallow, deep, never setting a rhythm, never pushing her over the edge.
Her back keeps lifting up off the mattress, little half-starts that are a preview of the way she'll rocket up when she comes, grasping at his head for more, for less, shouting profanities and breathing hard.
He steps up the pace, dipping deeper, tongue curling, and everything's so wet, her, him, the patch of fabric he can feel on the front of his boxer briefs, it's sweat and spit and Rose herself and he is never going to get enough.
He darts another glance up at her, and when had he looked away? A mistake not to be repeated.
He can see the soft, rolling sound waves of her ribs, and he's sure if he played them, it would be an opera to bring the Met to its knees.
The curves of her breasts, too, and he lifts his hands from where they'd been resting on her hips, following along with their shallow movements, and cups both breasts in tandem. It distracts him from the rhythm he'd set with his mouth and she notices, batting his hands away, "Now, now, now," she pleads.
He complies, tongue slipping from inside her to begin a steady pulse on her clit, he works at it, speeding the movement, increasing the pressure, suction with his mouth and friction with his tongue and then she's arching up off the bed, keening as she snaps into a near upright position and tugging at his hair.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Her voice is loud, the words punctuating each wave he can feel pulsing through her, and he eases off, gentling his movements, as she squirms first toward him and then away.
He'd be content to stay down here, busying himself with the smooth skin of her thighs, until she's ready for his mouth again, but she's tugging at him, fingers fanning out to get a grip that pulls him to rise over her.
There's no stopping the grin that crawls across his face, the smug, satisfied expression of a job well done, and she laughs at him.
"Your lucky you're so good at that," she says, still trying to catch her breath. "Or that ego would be completely insufferable."
He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, a poor job of clean up that means there's definitely still the taste of her left behind when he leans down to kiss her. She doesn't seem bothered by it, never has, and he busies himself with spreading it across her tongue as she settles his hips more firmly between her legs.
She bucks up into him, the feeling dulled by the thin fabric of his pants, and he shifts off her to remove them.
"You love my ego," he says, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxer briefs and tugging them off. "And you're gonna help make it bigger here in a second."
She rolls her eyes, but spreads her legs, locking them around his hips when he settles on top of her again.
Her hand drops between them, gripping his erection, and he lets out a rough sound at the feel of it. Then she's positioning him, the head of his cock right at her entrance.
"I love you," he says, and he can't contain the grin on his face, the inanity of life, and how happy he is at where his ended up. He pushes forward, sliding into her on a breath. "And that's for not saying it sooner."
She wraps her arms around, tugging him down in a tight hug.
"We got there in the end," she says, voice low in his ear. "And I love you, too."
He tilts his head, turning to press a kiss to her temple, and pushes himself up to brace his weight on his forearms. He rolls his hips once, a grunt half-escaping from his mouth.
"This," he says, and arches into her again, "Is for all the things I haven't done yet."
He sets a hard rhythm, short, fast strokes, the way it always is when he's used his mouth on her first. That winds him up more than nearly anything else, all those noises, the feel of her. In a different life, a different body, he could've come from that alone, the way he's sure she's broadcasting all those feelings and he just doesn't have the hardware to pick them up anymore.
It was a good trade though, he thinks, as her nails dig into the round of his shoulder, her other hand knotted tightly in his hair.
She arches up beneath him, meeting him on his strokes and, oh, it was a fucking brilliant trade.
He shifts, changing the angle enough that the friction's perfect for both of them, and she's calling out underneath him, "Like that, yeah, like that, right there, right there --" and she comes, words lost to shouts and the feel of her body tensing beneath his. He can't hold on, doesn't want to hold on, and then he's pounding into her, sloppy, rough movements that she encourages even as her body still shudders below.
"That feels so fucking good," she's panting the words in his ear and his head spins with the sound of them.
"Yeah?" It's all he can manage, but he wants more, needs more, and she keeps talking as his orgasm builds, twining tighter and tighter.
"Always so good," she says. "It's always so good, love the way you feel, the way you smell, your cock," and she drops her voice, drawing the word out, filthy and perfect, tongue wrapping around the hard consonants, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and she's still going, "I" -- she raises her hips to meet his -- "Love" -- and again -- "Your" -- last one -- "Cock."
He snaps, coming, a long, low grunt, the noise and the feel and the emotion, all of it spreading out in his veins in triple-time as he empties himself into her.
Her fingers scratch across his back as he floats down, dropping his weight to rest on her.
"Apology accepted," she says in his ear, and he grins against the skin of her neck, mouth dropping for one more go at that spot where it joins her shoulder, and she arches into him, body shuddering like he's triggered an aftershock.
She shifts underneath him a few minutes later, after their heartbeats have slowed, and he rolls off of her. She pushes herself up off the bed, a shaky-legged walk that has his ego ballooning again as she makes her way into the en suite.
It's only a short walk to the spare loo, and he forces himself to make it and clean up. They'll probably go to bed for the night now, and he's exhausted enough to want to, but they've been woken up by an emergency from Pete too many times in their short life here to not at least make an effort to put himself back together.
He tries the front door on his walk back from the loo and it's still locked, so even if there is an emergency, they won't be much help.
The room is dark again when he gets back, only the moonlight now, and he can make out Rose on the bed, clad in just her knickers and shifting the covers beneath her as she struggles to get under them without standing back up.
"Here, let me help," he says, and tugs the comforter down as she arches off of it. She slips into the sheets and he joins her, tugging all the covers up around them and rolling to his back so she can pillow her head on his chest.
"Still have half a day of lock in left," she mumbles sleepily into his chest. "Gonna think up more things to apologize for?"
He shifts his head down and presses a kiss to her hair.
"Even if I have to make them up."