Glutton for Punishment (version 2.0)
Title: Glutton for Punishment
Author: housemaid79
Beta: no actual beta, but lots of really helpful feedback over at whoverse_las
Pairing/Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for round 1, challenge 2 of whoverse_las, this is the revised version.
This was the prompt:
You learn something new every day - that’s the rumor, at least.
Today Rose has the (debatably) good fortune to learn two new things:
1. She absolutely loves zlingon-berries.
2. Her body has absolutely no tolerance for them (this second insight has been brought to you via near-projectile vomiting).
Not a very pretty revelation, but definitely a practical one.
And if she probed a bit deeper, there’s probably something profound masquerading amongst all that practical insight…something about wanting and having and those two things not always matching up…or maybe that’s just a Rolling Stones song…
Really, her head hurts too much for her to care.
And the Doctor? The Doctor is always learning new things.
Today’s being, that:
1. He absolutely loves Rose. Love-loves as in, “crazy-madly-deeply-head-over-heels in love with her” loves.
2. He wants Rose. Want-wants as in…well, just never you mind…
The thought comes as a bit of a surprise…even if it shouldn’t…in the middle of his holding Rose’s hair back, if you must know.
(In truth, he’s been ignoring these very facts for quite a while now…)
Today though, he’s been worried about Rose and it has drained his normally tip-top powers of obfuscation.
The facts (cheeky things that they are) sensed this weakness, and somewhere between Rose’s stomach cramps and the cold flannel he’s pressing to the back of her neck, they’ve caught up to him.
And this time they are unavoidable.
Because even he can’t think of another way to explain the fact that she’s the color of kindergarten paste, clammy, and vomiting…and he still thinks she’s gorgeous.
This, the Doctor muses with an eye toward the toilet and pasty-Rose, is likely not going to end well.
**
An hour and a half later, he’s standing in the kitchen, looking for Rose’s favorite mug and the trademark-Time-Lord-emotional-distance that he seems to have misplaced.
(Good luck finding that second item, Doctor…likely gone forever, along with the “trademark-Time-Lord-technical-asexuality” you like to claim.)
It’s his own fault that he’s in this quandary. True, there are things that Rose does that make it just that much harder to resist her.
Like that thing with her tongue…poking it out between her teeth… It’s completely enchanting and makes the normally steady rhythm of his hearts sound like something played by a mariachi band.
The look in her eye when she does it sometimes…well, if he were a suspicious man, he’d think she does it on purpose. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Even if that were true, it’s still his own fault that he does things and says things that he knows will get that response - pushes his own buttons, so to speak.
He’s taken to reciting mathematical proofs just to keep from leaping across the console and snogging her senseless. Mentally reciting, mind you, because the look she gave him when he did it out loud was not the one he’d been after.
Ah, there’s the mug Rose likes. Still no sign of that emotional-distance…
…ditto on the technical-asexuality.
**
Push. (Provoke flirty tongue…
Wait… …and we’re not kissing…
…and… …not kissing…
Nothing. …status quo stands)
**
He finds himself in the kitchen again.
The passing of seventy-two hours seems to have helped Rose’s stomach settle. She has a bit of her appetite back, and can now make the walk between bed and bathroom without leaning on him.
This is a good thing, even if he does miss having an excuse to keep the warm weight of her tucked close under his arm.
And he’s all over excuses to enjoy the feel of her body against his - so he’s not even going to make an attempt at avoiding the blame on this one.
He only hopes Rose hasn’t caught on.
Like how he chooses their destinations, for example. He is the pilot/navigator/designated driver after all…
It would be a bit embarrassing to admit that he chooses places with impossible-to-pronounce names intentionally. Even worse if she knew it’s because he’s secretly hoping for another hug in the name of correct-pronunciation.
(Truly, he will forever bless the eleven syllables of Raxicoricofallapatorius.)
They’re just hugs (harmless, benign things, really). Nothing more will come of them…but that doesn’t mean he won’t take what he can get.
(Push. Push. Push.)
**
Hit the button… (Of course we should celebrate with a hug…
…and hope. …and hold tightly…
No. …but never give in.)
**
Sometime later, he carries the tea tray back to the kitchen. Rose has told him she finally feels well enough to wear something other than pajamas, and shooed him away to “go pester, er, fix the TARDIS” while she takes a shower.
Personally, he thinks she looks just fine in pajamas.
He thinks she’d look just fine in anything.
Though there are some outfits, if he’s honest, that are particularly pleasing. Dickens wasn’t the only good thing about Cardiff, that’s for sure.
He wonders if he should feel guilty.
Maybe he would…but it’s hard to when he knows just how much she enjoys dressing up. Because, whether it’s 1869 Cardiff (unintended), or 1979 Sheffield (intended yet un-arrived), Rose is always game.
It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. She gets to see the sights, and he gets to see a good bit of leg.
(The fact that he didn’t get to hear “Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick” live was considerably softened by the view he got of her in that mini-dress.)
Although, as he thinks about it, “trade” rather implies that Rose would have some knowledge of this exchange…in which case, “trade” might not strictly apply here…
He decides not to look so closely at technicalities.
Really, he should just stop looking so closely at Rose.
He promptly ignores that thought.
**
Push. (Oh look, cleavage…in a corset…
Push. …and miles of leg…
Push. …those legs in pink high-heels…
Damn button doesn’t do anything. …and he looks, but never ever touches.)
**
He figures he’s given her enough time, a little over two hours, and goes to check on her. She’s not in her room though...which, as he thinks about it, is a good sign in and of itself.
When he does find her, it’s in the kitchen eyeing the lone remaining box of zlingon-berry biscuits.
“Rose,” his tone is warning, “need I remind you of the zlingon-berry induced vomit-fest of the previous five days? Lasted longer than Woodstock…messier too. Not that it wasn’t lovely spending all that quality time with you…”
“I know…” she grumbles, and the Doctor can’t decide if her tone is exactly wistful or mournful. “They’re just so good. S’like I’m addicted.”
He immediately scrambles for a suitable vomit-receptacle. She puts a hand out to stop him.
“Relax - I haven’t eaten any. ‘M just looking.” Oh yes, she’s definitely grumbling now. “Not like looking does anything.”
(She’s like a little kid, he thinks: “Go ahead, this red button doesn’t do anything…press it and see,” and Rose just can’t resist…)
“Then why do it? You’re just making yourself miserable, staring at them…like you think if you look at them long enough you’ll magically be able to have them.”
“Dunno…maybe it’s a human thing. Wantin’ what you know you can’t have…“ Rose quirks an eyebrow at him. “Time Lords probably don’t have issues with masochism, do they?”
He starts to open his mouth to agree, but catches sight as Rose sticks her tongue between her teeth. He promptly shuts his mouth.
Suddenly the Doctor knows just how Rose feels…
Author: housemaid79
Beta: no actual beta, but lots of really helpful feedback over at whoverse_las
Pairing/Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for round 1, challenge 2 of whoverse_las, this is the revised version.
This was the prompt:
You learn something new every day - that’s the rumor, at least.
Today Rose has the (debatably) good fortune to learn two new things:
1. She absolutely loves zlingon-berries.
2. Her body has absolutely no tolerance for them (this second insight has been brought to you via near-projectile vomiting).
Not a very pretty revelation, but definitely a practical one.
And if she probed a bit deeper, there’s probably something profound masquerading amongst all that practical insight…something about wanting and having and those two things not always matching up…or maybe that’s just a Rolling Stones song…
Really, her head hurts too much for her to care.
And the Doctor? The Doctor is always learning new things.
Today’s being, that:
1. He absolutely loves Rose. Love-loves as in, “crazy-madly-deeply-head-over-heels in love with her” loves.
2. He wants Rose. Want-wants as in…well, just never you mind…
The thought comes as a bit of a surprise…even if it shouldn’t…in the middle of his holding Rose’s hair back, if you must know.
(In truth, he’s been ignoring these very facts for quite a while now…)
Today though, he’s been worried about Rose and it has drained his normally tip-top powers of obfuscation.
The facts (cheeky things that they are) sensed this weakness, and somewhere between Rose’s stomach cramps and the cold flannel he’s pressing to the back of her neck, they’ve caught up to him.
And this time they are unavoidable.
Because even he can’t think of another way to explain the fact that she’s the color of kindergarten paste, clammy, and vomiting…and he still thinks she’s gorgeous.
This, the Doctor muses with an eye toward the toilet and pasty-Rose, is likely not going to end well.
**
An hour and a half later, he’s standing in the kitchen, looking for Rose’s favorite mug and the trademark-Time-Lord-emotional-distance that he seems to have misplaced.
(Good luck finding that second item, Doctor…likely gone forever, along with the “trademark-Time-Lord-technical-asexuality” you like to claim.)
It’s his own fault that he’s in this quandary. True, there are things that Rose does that make it just that much harder to resist her.
Like that thing with her tongue…poking it out between her teeth… It’s completely enchanting and makes the normally steady rhythm of his hearts sound like something played by a mariachi band.
The look in her eye when she does it sometimes…well, if he were a suspicious man, he’d think she does it on purpose. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Even if that were true, it’s still his own fault that he does things and says things that he knows will get that response - pushes his own buttons, so to speak.
He’s taken to reciting mathematical proofs just to keep from leaping across the console and snogging her senseless. Mentally reciting, mind you, because the look she gave him when he did it out loud was not the one he’d been after.
Ah, there’s the mug Rose likes. Still no sign of that emotional-distance…
…ditto on the technical-asexuality.
**
Push. (Provoke flirty tongue…
Wait… …and we’re not kissing…
…and… …not kissing…
Nothing. …status quo stands)
**
He finds himself in the kitchen again.
The passing of seventy-two hours seems to have helped Rose’s stomach settle. She has a bit of her appetite back, and can now make the walk between bed and bathroom without leaning on him.
This is a good thing, even if he does miss having an excuse to keep the warm weight of her tucked close under his arm.
And he’s all over excuses to enjoy the feel of her body against his - so he’s not even going to make an attempt at avoiding the blame on this one.
He only hopes Rose hasn’t caught on.
Like how he chooses their destinations, for example. He is the pilot/navigator/designated driver after all…
It would be a bit embarrassing to admit that he chooses places with impossible-to-pronounce names intentionally. Even worse if she knew it’s because he’s secretly hoping for another hug in the name of correct-pronunciation.
(Truly, he will forever bless the eleven syllables of Raxicoricofallapatorius.)
They’re just hugs (harmless, benign things, really). Nothing more will come of them…but that doesn’t mean he won’t take what he can get.
(Push. Push. Push.)
**
Hit the button… (Of course we should celebrate with a hug…
…and hope. …and hold tightly…
No. …but never give in.)
**
Sometime later, he carries the tea tray back to the kitchen. Rose has told him she finally feels well enough to wear something other than pajamas, and shooed him away to “go pester, er, fix the TARDIS” while she takes a shower.
Personally, he thinks she looks just fine in pajamas.
He thinks she’d look just fine in anything.
Though there are some outfits, if he’s honest, that are particularly pleasing. Dickens wasn’t the only good thing about Cardiff, that’s for sure.
He wonders if he should feel guilty.
Maybe he would…but it’s hard to when he knows just how much she enjoys dressing up. Because, whether it’s 1869 Cardiff (unintended), or 1979 Sheffield (intended yet un-arrived), Rose is always game.
It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. She gets to see the sights, and he gets to see a good bit of leg.
(The fact that he didn’t get to hear “Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick” live was considerably softened by the view he got of her in that mini-dress.)
Although, as he thinks about it, “trade” rather implies that Rose would have some knowledge of this exchange…in which case, “trade” might not strictly apply here…
He decides not to look so closely at technicalities.
Really, he should just stop looking so closely at Rose.
He promptly ignores that thought.
**
Push. (Oh look, cleavage…in a corset…
Push. …and miles of leg…
Push. …those legs in pink high-heels…
Damn button doesn’t do anything. …and he looks, but never ever touches.)
**
He figures he’s given her enough time, a little over two hours, and goes to check on her. She’s not in her room though...which, as he thinks about it, is a good sign in and of itself.
When he does find her, it’s in the kitchen eyeing the lone remaining box of zlingon-berry biscuits.
“Rose,” his tone is warning, “need I remind you of the zlingon-berry induced vomit-fest of the previous five days? Lasted longer than Woodstock…messier too. Not that it wasn’t lovely spending all that quality time with you…”
“I know…” she grumbles, and the Doctor can’t decide if her tone is exactly wistful or mournful. “They’re just so good. S’like I’m addicted.”
He immediately scrambles for a suitable vomit-receptacle. She puts a hand out to stop him.
“Relax - I haven’t eaten any. ‘M just looking.” Oh yes, she’s definitely grumbling now. “Not like looking does anything.”
(She’s like a little kid, he thinks: “Go ahead, this red button doesn’t do anything…press it and see,” and Rose just can’t resist…)
“Then why do it? You’re just making yourself miserable, staring at them…like you think if you look at them long enough you’ll magically be able to have them.”
“Dunno…maybe it’s a human thing. Wantin’ what you know you can’t have…“ Rose quirks an eyebrow at him. “Time Lords probably don’t have issues with masochism, do they?”
He starts to open his mouth to agree, but catches sight as Rose sticks her tongue between her teeth. He promptly shuts his mouth.
Suddenly the Doctor knows just how Rose feels…