Yesterday is but Today's Memory (1/1)
Title: Yesterday is but Today's Memory
Rating: M
Author: jlrpuck
Pairing: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: A follow-on to "Post Match Analysis”; and a prelude to "Tidings of comfort and Joy”.
Authors Notes: Written as a very belated birthday gift for wiggiemomsi.
Thank you to earlgreytea for her beta of this, waaaay back before I went on vacation. And thank you again to chicklet73, wildwinterwitch, caraskye, and xebgoc for covering for me whilst I was off gallivanting about the UK *hugs*
Yesterday is but Today's Memory
"Yesterday is but today's memory, and tomorrow is today's dream."
--Khalil Gribran
He finds her in the shower, the room filled with steam as he slowly pushes the door open. She’s humming, relatively on-key and then he hears the pitch of water-hitting-something change as she steps under the spray to wash.
It’s too much to resist-especially after he finally made love to her, just the night before. Not that it was night, not really-but she’d slept for nearly ten hours after, and would no doubt refer to it as morning, now, and so it was simply easier to think of it as night.
He almost laughs as he stealthily undresses: he’s been terrified that she’ll change him, but he’s come to realize that it’s far too late to worry about that. From the moment she agreed to come with him-from the moment she ran towards him after he’d asked a second time, leaving Rickey crumpled on the pavement in a pathetic heap-he’s been adapting, growing, changing. And all because of her.
She’s humming again as she steps out from under the spray, and he jerks his pants roughly down so he can join her before she’s done. He waits a moment, tries to gauge where in the confined space of the shower she is-and then he opens the stall door, steps in, and neatly traps her near the far wall.
“Oh!” She’s surprised, and a bit embarrassed, at least if the sudden slide of her eyes off to the side is any indication. But she doesn’t try to cover up-doesn’t try to preserve a false modesty. Instead, she slowly rolls her shoulders back, brings her gaze to meet his; and he feels himself smile as she boldly meets his gaze.
“Thought you had to go fly us somewhere?” she says, slowly grinning at him.
“We’re flyin’ there. And Jack’s watchin’ the controls.”
She raises her eyebrows. “That’s mighty trusting of you.”
“It’s a means to an end.”
“An’ what’s that end?” She tilts her head, and he’s aware of her body’s physiological reactions to his presence. The way her breath is coming in shallow, quick breaths; the way her skin has flushed even more. The way her pupils have dilated.
He wants to kiss her; he instead chooses to tease her. He takes a step back, under the hard, hot spray of the shower, and briefly runs his hands over his short hair before poking his head out from the water. “Need a shower, too. Figured it was best to conserve water.”
Her face falls, and he can’t resist leaning forward, kissing her. He could kiss her for days, he thinks, just taste her, feel her warmth-and she is warm, so much warmer than he is-feel her lips against his, her tongue tentatively dancing with his as the kiss deepens. She gasps when he pulls back, and he’s unable to fight back a self-satisfied smirk as he notes how red her lips are, how dazed she looks.
She rallies. “Not much showerin’, that. More like kissin’.”
“Well, if you’re goin’ to complain about it...” He tilts his head back under the spray. He’s startled when he feels her hand press over his sternum; and then she’s within millimetres of him, her body so very close but frustratingly not touching his. He’s spent so long managing to keep his feelings in check, controlling the reaction of his body when she’s close to him. But here, in the shower, just the two of them naked; memories of making love to her so fresh in his mind, it’s impossible not to react. His cock stirs, slowly hardening as her hand drifts down, as she slides her hands around his hips, then cups his bum.
“Not complainin’, Doctor.” She rocks onto the balls of her feet, her skin rubbing against his erection, the points of her nipples brushing against his chest; he gasps, and she gives him a slow grin as she pulls him against her. “Not complainin’ at all.” She whispers the words against his jaw, and he briefly wonders where on Earth she learned to seduce men before deciding it’s a question which can wait until later.
He can’t think of anything witty to say-he can’t think of anything to say, full-stop-and so he rotates his hips against her, then gently cups her jaw, tilting her head so he can kiss her. She leans up, eager; he pulls back, keeping the kiss deliberately gentle, still teasing her.
Rose’s hands moved to his lower back, her fingers splayed across his skin; and she finds one of his few ticklish spots, the ticklishness a sure sign he’s aroused. Not that the erection left much doubt.
He giggles-mortifyingly, to his mind, but Rose pulls back, grinning in delight-and she wiggles her fingers again. He skips back, under and through the water; Rose follows him, her hands reaching out, seeking to tickle him again, and he panics as he realizes he’s backed quite literally into a corner.
Her grin is predatory as she notices her advantage; she slows, stalking him, and he realizes that his usually steady pulse rate has accelerated. He’s surprised-pleasantly so-when she reaches him, and instead of tickling him anew slips her hands across his hips, down to encircle his erection. Both hands wrapped around him, she tentatively strokes upwards; she’s watching him, curious, cataloguing his reactions as she strokes down, then slips a hand away to reach down and cup him whilst still stroking him with her other hand. He’s unable to keep from letting his head drop back against the tile of the stall; he groans as she tightens her grip on him.
“Like that, do ya?” she asks, causing him to raise his head to look at her. She’s eager to please him, and a bit tentative, and he’s reminded of how very young she is.
He feels like a cad, letting himself do this-but he remembers that she’s told him, several times, even before they had sex, that she accepts him for who he is. She is far more willing, he suspects, to forgive him for what he’s done-the things she knows about, and the things she doesn’t-than he will ever be.
“Doctor?” She’s stopped stroking him, although her hand is still wrapped around his erection. He feels her fingers gently drift across his cheek, drawing his attention to her, and he opens his eyes to see her looking at him worriedly.
“Rose.” He leans down, kissing her again, his arms going around her back and pulling her to him. He’ll never really think he deserves her, but he knows he’s a bastard enough to take what she’s offering; to gratefully accept it, and to maybe allow himself a bit of happiness, however transient he knows it will be. Because it will be-she’ll die, or he’ll change, eventually, possibly before she tires of him or is killed, and things between them will change. They always do, when he regenerates. But until then...until then, he’ll savour what time has seen fit to give him.
He deepens the kiss, turning them so she has the support of the wall now, his hand finding her breast, teasing her, pinching her taut nipple as she groans into their kiss. He loves feeling the weight of her breasts, could spend hours lavishing attention on that one particular aspect of her anatomy before moving on to show how much he enjoys the rest of her-but this morning, all he wants is to simply be sheathed within her once more.
“I’m going to shag you, Rose Tyler,” he whispers, kissing the corner of her mouth, then down her neck; his lips find her breast, and he begins to nip and lave, causing her to drift her hands to his cropped hair, encouraging him.
He eventually continues his southerly exploration, running his tongue down her stomach, dipping it into her navel, lapping at the water collecting there. He can smell her arousal, even in the sweetly-scented steam of the shower, and he drops to his knees, his hand sliding up her thigh.
He glances up to find her looking down at him. Her eyes are almost black, her lips parted and a deep red, and she is almost panting as his fingers slowly slip into the slickness between her legs, sliding back, dipping into her. She shifts, her legs parting further, and he finds he wants her even more as she continues to watch him while he teases her, his fingers dipping into her, playing with her, encouraging her body’s reaction. He eventually returns his attention to his hand, leaning forward, licking his fingers before angling his head; he guides her leg over his shoulder, and slips his tongue against her folds, tasting her properly.
She groans, encouraging him; he finds her clit, circles it with the tip of his tongue, then drags his tongue back to her opening, dipping in then sucking. Her hips buck against him, and her hand rests on the crown of his head, holding him in place.
“Like that, do you?” he growls against her.
“Yeah.” The word is ground out, the tone encouraging him as much as the actual word itself.
He leans up, repeats the action only with less gentleness; repeats it again, and again, and is rewarded by her cries as she comes, almost yelling as he laps at her in time with the spasm of her muscles.
He stands, kissing her skin as he raises himself; he’s not sure how she’ll react to him going down on her, and is pleasantly surprised when she pulls him to her for a long, slow kiss, her tongue swiping against his as she holds him to her.
And then she turns them-not that he fights it. It’s his turn to be pressed against the wall; his turn to have her go down on him. It’s been years-decades, at least-since someone’s done this for him, and he leans his head back against the wall as he enjoys the sensation of her mouth around him, sucking on him, her teeth skating against his skin. He focuses on her-on the here and the now, of what it’s like to have Rose do something he’s fantasized about on more than one occasion-and he again decides to ignore any guilt he might feel and to enjoy what he’s been given. What she’s giving him, freely and happily, having seen him at his worst.
He can feel his own orgasm begin to build-he’s not been concentrating on keeping it under control, and he knows that if he doesn’t stop her, he’ll come before he’s had a chance to shag her properly. And while he’d not object to that, what he really wants at the moment is to make her orgasm again, around him.
“Rose.” His voice is gruff, and she’s surprised when he reaches down, pulling her up almost roughly. Her eyes are wide; he is able to bite out, “Said I’d shag you, didn’t?” before he kisses her. At the taste of himself on her he feels his erection harden further; he needs to be in her, needs to feel her around him, against him. He moves a leg between them then reaches down, guiding her thigh up over his; and he then reaches between them, guiding his penis to her, arching so he is able to sheath himself within her.
Somehow, he’s managed to forget how divine it feels to join with her. How has he managed to do that?
Rose makes a noise in the back of her throat at the sensation, and he bends his knees, dropping his hips, almost sliding out of her.
“No,” she says, her voice bereft; he arches, straightening, driving into her again.
“Like that, do you, Rose?” He does it again, harder this time, almost lifting her off her feet.
“Yes,” she hisses through clenched teeth, her fingernails biting into his skin where she’s holding herself upright.
He can’t kiss her-not without losing his angle, and he has to settle for grunting against her ear as he shags her, each press into her pulling his orgasm closer and closer. He can feel her reacting to his actions; can feel her muscles twitching around him.
“What do you want, Rose?” he whispers, brushing a kiss against her neck, his hands holding her to him.
“T’ come,” she replies, breathless. Her hand finds its way between them, and she begins to stroke herself as he thrusts into her.
His orgasm takes him by surprise-he’d genuinely expected to be able to last until she’d come again. He continues to push into her, to try to prolong his orgasm as long as he can, and is rewarded when he hears Rose whimper, then feels her clench around him.
He buries himself in her, even as he turns, his lips seeking hers. She kisses him as though it’s their last kiss, clinging to him, a sense of desperation now washing through her.
He relaxes as he feels her orgasm wane, and then he’s able to straighten, to once more cradle her jaw as he gentles their kiss. He pulls back, opens his eyes, looks at her; her eyes are still closed, her head still tilted, and he can’t help but lean down one last time and brush his lips against hers.
“Need another shower,” she finally jokes tiredly.
“Seem to be in the right spot for that,” he says.
They each finish showering, him washing her, her washing him, the intimacy greater than he’s shared in more time than he can count. By the time they’re done, with the water turned off and both of them wrapped in towels, he’s surprised to find he’s actually relaxed enough that he might just be able to sleep for a spell.
“Y’alright?” Rose asks, looking up at him in concern as he tucks his towel around his hips.
“Could do with a kip,” he replies, his hand finding hers instinctively.
She smiles. “Why don’t we go lay down, then?”
“Jack-”
She blushes, but defiantly states, “Jack’ll wait. C’mon, Doctor.” She tugs at his hand, encouraging him, and he feels absolutely unable to refuse her anything.
He doesn’t say anything, instead turns and leads them out into the bedroom. The room is cool after the prolonged heat of the shower, but in its own way it’s just as relaxing as the shower itself was. He reaches the bed, releases Rose’s hand as he drops his towel then settles on the mattress. Rose has walked to the other side of the bed, and crawls across to him, snuggling against him before he pulls the duvet over them.
He closes his eyes, feels his world tip...and then he’s aware of the gentle brush of finger across his cheek, of the soft swish of rough cloth against his forehead. He can hear whispering, recognizes Rose’s voice, and that she’s worried.
He wants to open his eyes, but a deep lassitude is still flowing through him-he feels as though he could sleep for hours upon hours; could lose track of time, in fact. But he wants to wake up, to pull Rose against him as he sleeps, as he recovers.
As he recovers...
He begins to get flashes, then-of them, after Kyoto; of Rose being taken from him, then Jack. Of the gut-wrenching feeling of loss as he thought she was dead; of the thought, repeating in his head over and over that he’d never get the chance to make love to her again, that he’d killed her by allowing himself the small bit of happiness he’d stolen. Of the Game Station and Lynda-with-a-y; of Daleks, and sending Rose away and Jack going off to die.
Of Rose-his Rose, his lover-tearing into his ship and coming back to him, Bad Wolf, ending the Time War once and for all and killing herself in the process.
But no-no, she’d not killed herself; she’d come close, had been so terribly, horrifyingly close. But he’d kissed her-an echo of the kisses he’d given her the morning before it all went so wrong-had taken her fate upon himself, and he had died instead.
No--not died. Regenerated.
He is a new man. And she is still there; her hand around his, her weight on the mattress next to him, her voice whispering somewhere over him, to someone beyond his hearing or care. He’s changed-but she is still there.
He relaxes, lets the dark sleep wash over him once more. He is safe wherever he is, with Rose; he can let this new body recover, with her there to watch over him. He can dream of their all-too-brief time together; and he can dream of what it might be like to get to know her anew.
~fin~
Rating: M
Author: jlrpuck
Pairing: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: A follow-on to "Post Match Analysis”; and a prelude to "Tidings of comfort and Joy”.
Authors Notes: Written as a very belated birthday gift for wiggiemomsi.
Thank you to earlgreytea for her beta of this, waaaay back before I went on vacation. And thank you again to chicklet73, wildwinterwitch, caraskye, and xebgoc for covering for me whilst I was off gallivanting about the UK *hugs*
Yesterday is but Today's Memory
"Yesterday is but today's memory, and tomorrow is today's dream."
--Khalil Gribran
He finds her in the shower, the room filled with steam as he slowly pushes the door open. She’s humming, relatively on-key and then he hears the pitch of water-hitting-something change as she steps under the spray to wash.
It’s too much to resist-especially after he finally made love to her, just the night before. Not that it was night, not really-but she’d slept for nearly ten hours after, and would no doubt refer to it as morning, now, and so it was simply easier to think of it as night.
He almost laughs as he stealthily undresses: he’s been terrified that she’ll change him, but he’s come to realize that it’s far too late to worry about that. From the moment she agreed to come with him-from the moment she ran towards him after he’d asked a second time, leaving Rickey crumpled on the pavement in a pathetic heap-he’s been adapting, growing, changing. And all because of her.
She’s humming again as she steps out from under the spray, and he jerks his pants roughly down so he can join her before she’s done. He waits a moment, tries to gauge where in the confined space of the shower she is-and then he opens the stall door, steps in, and neatly traps her near the far wall.
“Oh!” She’s surprised, and a bit embarrassed, at least if the sudden slide of her eyes off to the side is any indication. But she doesn’t try to cover up-doesn’t try to preserve a false modesty. Instead, she slowly rolls her shoulders back, brings her gaze to meet his; and he feels himself smile as she boldly meets his gaze.
“Thought you had to go fly us somewhere?” she says, slowly grinning at him.
“We’re flyin’ there. And Jack’s watchin’ the controls.”
She raises her eyebrows. “That’s mighty trusting of you.”
“It’s a means to an end.”
“An’ what’s that end?” She tilts her head, and he’s aware of her body’s physiological reactions to his presence. The way her breath is coming in shallow, quick breaths; the way her skin has flushed even more. The way her pupils have dilated.
He wants to kiss her; he instead chooses to tease her. He takes a step back, under the hard, hot spray of the shower, and briefly runs his hands over his short hair before poking his head out from the water. “Need a shower, too. Figured it was best to conserve water.”
Her face falls, and he can’t resist leaning forward, kissing her. He could kiss her for days, he thinks, just taste her, feel her warmth-and she is warm, so much warmer than he is-feel her lips against his, her tongue tentatively dancing with his as the kiss deepens. She gasps when he pulls back, and he’s unable to fight back a self-satisfied smirk as he notes how red her lips are, how dazed she looks.
She rallies. “Not much showerin’, that. More like kissin’.”
“Well, if you’re goin’ to complain about it...” He tilts his head back under the spray. He’s startled when he feels her hand press over his sternum; and then she’s within millimetres of him, her body so very close but frustratingly not touching his. He’s spent so long managing to keep his feelings in check, controlling the reaction of his body when she’s close to him. But here, in the shower, just the two of them naked; memories of making love to her so fresh in his mind, it’s impossible not to react. His cock stirs, slowly hardening as her hand drifts down, as she slides her hands around his hips, then cups his bum.
“Not complainin’, Doctor.” She rocks onto the balls of her feet, her skin rubbing against his erection, the points of her nipples brushing against his chest; he gasps, and she gives him a slow grin as she pulls him against her. “Not complainin’ at all.” She whispers the words against his jaw, and he briefly wonders where on Earth she learned to seduce men before deciding it’s a question which can wait until later.
He can’t think of anything witty to say-he can’t think of anything to say, full-stop-and so he rotates his hips against her, then gently cups her jaw, tilting her head so he can kiss her. She leans up, eager; he pulls back, keeping the kiss deliberately gentle, still teasing her.
Rose’s hands moved to his lower back, her fingers splayed across his skin; and she finds one of his few ticklish spots, the ticklishness a sure sign he’s aroused. Not that the erection left much doubt.
He giggles-mortifyingly, to his mind, but Rose pulls back, grinning in delight-and she wiggles her fingers again. He skips back, under and through the water; Rose follows him, her hands reaching out, seeking to tickle him again, and he panics as he realizes he’s backed quite literally into a corner.
Her grin is predatory as she notices her advantage; she slows, stalking him, and he realizes that his usually steady pulse rate has accelerated. He’s surprised-pleasantly so-when she reaches him, and instead of tickling him anew slips her hands across his hips, down to encircle his erection. Both hands wrapped around him, she tentatively strokes upwards; she’s watching him, curious, cataloguing his reactions as she strokes down, then slips a hand away to reach down and cup him whilst still stroking him with her other hand. He’s unable to keep from letting his head drop back against the tile of the stall; he groans as she tightens her grip on him.
“Like that, do ya?” she asks, causing him to raise his head to look at her. She’s eager to please him, and a bit tentative, and he’s reminded of how very young she is.
He feels like a cad, letting himself do this-but he remembers that she’s told him, several times, even before they had sex, that she accepts him for who he is. She is far more willing, he suspects, to forgive him for what he’s done-the things she knows about, and the things she doesn’t-than he will ever be.
“Doctor?” She’s stopped stroking him, although her hand is still wrapped around his erection. He feels her fingers gently drift across his cheek, drawing his attention to her, and he opens his eyes to see her looking at him worriedly.
“Rose.” He leans down, kissing her again, his arms going around her back and pulling her to him. He’ll never really think he deserves her, but he knows he’s a bastard enough to take what she’s offering; to gratefully accept it, and to maybe allow himself a bit of happiness, however transient he knows it will be. Because it will be-she’ll die, or he’ll change, eventually, possibly before she tires of him or is killed, and things between them will change. They always do, when he regenerates. But until then...until then, he’ll savour what time has seen fit to give him.
He deepens the kiss, turning them so she has the support of the wall now, his hand finding her breast, teasing her, pinching her taut nipple as she groans into their kiss. He loves feeling the weight of her breasts, could spend hours lavishing attention on that one particular aspect of her anatomy before moving on to show how much he enjoys the rest of her-but this morning, all he wants is to simply be sheathed within her once more.
“I’m going to shag you, Rose Tyler,” he whispers, kissing the corner of her mouth, then down her neck; his lips find her breast, and he begins to nip and lave, causing her to drift her hands to his cropped hair, encouraging him.
He eventually continues his southerly exploration, running his tongue down her stomach, dipping it into her navel, lapping at the water collecting there. He can smell her arousal, even in the sweetly-scented steam of the shower, and he drops to his knees, his hand sliding up her thigh.
He glances up to find her looking down at him. Her eyes are almost black, her lips parted and a deep red, and she is almost panting as his fingers slowly slip into the slickness between her legs, sliding back, dipping into her. She shifts, her legs parting further, and he finds he wants her even more as she continues to watch him while he teases her, his fingers dipping into her, playing with her, encouraging her body’s reaction. He eventually returns his attention to his hand, leaning forward, licking his fingers before angling his head; he guides her leg over his shoulder, and slips his tongue against her folds, tasting her properly.
She groans, encouraging him; he finds her clit, circles it with the tip of his tongue, then drags his tongue back to her opening, dipping in then sucking. Her hips buck against him, and her hand rests on the crown of his head, holding him in place.
“Like that, do you?” he growls against her.
“Yeah.” The word is ground out, the tone encouraging him as much as the actual word itself.
He leans up, repeats the action only with less gentleness; repeats it again, and again, and is rewarded by her cries as she comes, almost yelling as he laps at her in time with the spasm of her muscles.
He stands, kissing her skin as he raises himself; he’s not sure how she’ll react to him going down on her, and is pleasantly surprised when she pulls him to her for a long, slow kiss, her tongue swiping against his as she holds him to her.
And then she turns them-not that he fights it. It’s his turn to be pressed against the wall; his turn to have her go down on him. It’s been years-decades, at least-since someone’s done this for him, and he leans his head back against the wall as he enjoys the sensation of her mouth around him, sucking on him, her teeth skating against his skin. He focuses on her-on the here and the now, of what it’s like to have Rose do something he’s fantasized about on more than one occasion-and he again decides to ignore any guilt he might feel and to enjoy what he’s been given. What she’s giving him, freely and happily, having seen him at his worst.
He can feel his own orgasm begin to build-he’s not been concentrating on keeping it under control, and he knows that if he doesn’t stop her, he’ll come before he’s had a chance to shag her properly. And while he’d not object to that, what he really wants at the moment is to make her orgasm again, around him.
“Rose.” His voice is gruff, and she’s surprised when he reaches down, pulling her up almost roughly. Her eyes are wide; he is able to bite out, “Said I’d shag you, didn’t?” before he kisses her. At the taste of himself on her he feels his erection harden further; he needs to be in her, needs to feel her around him, against him. He moves a leg between them then reaches down, guiding her thigh up over his; and he then reaches between them, guiding his penis to her, arching so he is able to sheath himself within her.
Somehow, he’s managed to forget how divine it feels to join with her. How has he managed to do that?
Rose makes a noise in the back of her throat at the sensation, and he bends his knees, dropping his hips, almost sliding out of her.
“No,” she says, her voice bereft; he arches, straightening, driving into her again.
“Like that, do you, Rose?” He does it again, harder this time, almost lifting her off her feet.
“Yes,” she hisses through clenched teeth, her fingernails biting into his skin where she’s holding herself upright.
He can’t kiss her-not without losing his angle, and he has to settle for grunting against her ear as he shags her, each press into her pulling his orgasm closer and closer. He can feel her reacting to his actions; can feel her muscles twitching around him.
“What do you want, Rose?” he whispers, brushing a kiss against her neck, his hands holding her to him.
“T’ come,” she replies, breathless. Her hand finds its way between them, and she begins to stroke herself as he thrusts into her.
His orgasm takes him by surprise-he’d genuinely expected to be able to last until she’d come again. He continues to push into her, to try to prolong his orgasm as long as he can, and is rewarded when he hears Rose whimper, then feels her clench around him.
He buries himself in her, even as he turns, his lips seeking hers. She kisses him as though it’s their last kiss, clinging to him, a sense of desperation now washing through her.
He relaxes as he feels her orgasm wane, and then he’s able to straighten, to once more cradle her jaw as he gentles their kiss. He pulls back, opens his eyes, looks at her; her eyes are still closed, her head still tilted, and he can’t help but lean down one last time and brush his lips against hers.
“Need another shower,” she finally jokes tiredly.
“Seem to be in the right spot for that,” he says.
They each finish showering, him washing her, her washing him, the intimacy greater than he’s shared in more time than he can count. By the time they’re done, with the water turned off and both of them wrapped in towels, he’s surprised to find he’s actually relaxed enough that he might just be able to sleep for a spell.
“Y’alright?” Rose asks, looking up at him in concern as he tucks his towel around his hips.
“Could do with a kip,” he replies, his hand finding hers instinctively.
She smiles. “Why don’t we go lay down, then?”
“Jack-”
She blushes, but defiantly states, “Jack’ll wait. C’mon, Doctor.” She tugs at his hand, encouraging him, and he feels absolutely unable to refuse her anything.
He doesn’t say anything, instead turns and leads them out into the bedroom. The room is cool after the prolonged heat of the shower, but in its own way it’s just as relaxing as the shower itself was. He reaches the bed, releases Rose’s hand as he drops his towel then settles on the mattress. Rose has walked to the other side of the bed, and crawls across to him, snuggling against him before he pulls the duvet over them.
He closes his eyes, feels his world tip...and then he’s aware of the gentle brush of finger across his cheek, of the soft swish of rough cloth against his forehead. He can hear whispering, recognizes Rose’s voice, and that she’s worried.
He wants to open his eyes, but a deep lassitude is still flowing through him-he feels as though he could sleep for hours upon hours; could lose track of time, in fact. But he wants to wake up, to pull Rose against him as he sleeps, as he recovers.
As he recovers...
He begins to get flashes, then-of them, after Kyoto; of Rose being taken from him, then Jack. Of the gut-wrenching feeling of loss as he thought she was dead; of the thought, repeating in his head over and over that he’d never get the chance to make love to her again, that he’d killed her by allowing himself the small bit of happiness he’d stolen. Of the Game Station and Lynda-with-a-y; of Daleks, and sending Rose away and Jack going off to die.
Of Rose-his Rose, his lover-tearing into his ship and coming back to him, Bad Wolf, ending the Time War once and for all and killing herself in the process.
But no-no, she’d not killed herself; she’d come close, had been so terribly, horrifyingly close. But he’d kissed her-an echo of the kisses he’d given her the morning before it all went so wrong-had taken her fate upon himself, and he had died instead.
No--not died. Regenerated.
He is a new man. And she is still there; her hand around his, her weight on the mattress next to him, her voice whispering somewhere over him, to someone beyond his hearing or care. He’s changed-but she is still there.
He relaxes, lets the dark sleep wash over him once more. He is safe wherever he is, with Rose; he can let this new body recover, with her there to watch over him. He can dream of their all-too-brief time together; and he can dream of what it might be like to get to know her anew.
~fin~