Terrific Super Thoughts. By the power of greyskull, this is goddam fluffy.
Ten/Rose, PG-13 for fairly mild and unsexy sexing, set in Season Two after The Idiot's Lantern. Awfulness and giggling. No point. Less plot. All in one long oddly rambling shot. Rassilon's fancy knickers, I'm rhyming again, I thought there were pills for this.
"Like comets or asteroids. Strawberry jam. Thank God you don't taste like Bakelite."
"I haven't- wait. Yes. Who told you ?"
"Tommy," she grins. "Said you licked it like a spoon. You nutter."
She's gold and blue in the light from the console; pink in the curves of her elbows and throat, where the sequins are giving off their own milder glow. Her hair's in her eyes. It's so obvious, the way she looks at him, or doesn't look, or tries not to look. He's too familiar with the motions- he's been looking at her all night. "Rose-" he says, taking a step, and his pockets jingle. She looks up from her nails and smirks at him, warming him to the bone.
"Do you seriously still have change in there ?" He does. "I thought you spent the rest on popsicles. You know your coin jar's overflowing. You'll either have to go on an intergalactic spending spree or just find a nice fountain, chuck it all in for luck."
"Hmm." He mimes heaving a weight over the console, strikes a pose to think. "Chucking."
"You idle rich." She laughs. "Some lifting'd do you good."
"Rich. Hey, I could be rich ! How much, d'you think ?" he says, circling, rubbing his palms in mock-glee. "How much does a good woman go for, these days ?" She gives him a wild, irritated glance.
"You thinking of selling me ?"
"Maybe." He does a manic little skip. "On the ice-planet of Parraxsis, I'd get about thirteen million- in frozen currency, though, hardly attractive. I could hit a closer to home- prehistoric Mongolia, maybe. I think I could get a good horse for you; for then that's practically a fortune."
"So what you're trying, and failing to say," she's practically grinning her face off, "is that your coin collection pales in comparison to how incredibly valuable I am and marvelous and fantastic."
"That's less poetic."
"Less confusing, certainly." She flips her hair. "Oh, and are you fancying yourself a poet now ? Explains all those ruffly shirts I found in the wardrobe."
"I'm not-" he stops, stares firmly into the nonthreatening walls of the TARDIS, which at least are not laughing at him. Yet. Today. "Those are not my shirts."
"Really ?"
"No. No, bollocks." He sighs. "Those are my shirts. Point in my favor, I had a posh accent and really superior hair to back them up at the time."
"Ugh."
"Don't ugh until you see the photos," he threatens, shaking his head. He sits beside her, ankles up on the console, not looking at her bare toes next to his trainers; pink lacquer neatly shining off every one, perfectly formed, like little apples tipping slender feet. Feet that would be oh, so delicious. His brain's trying to kill him. "Uh-"
"Doctor ?"
"Rose," he says, more urgently, "I meant what I- failed- to say. I've known so many- so many people. Hundreds of people. Thousands, maybe millions ? I think I've had to shake a million hands, lots of hands- anyway. So many people, so many worlds. And do you know," he's closer to her now, closer than he intended when this began. "Do you know, Rose Tyler, how many really good people there are ?"
"Lots," she says, against his ear.
"Lots," he agrees. "I've met hundreds. But hundreds- that's a funny number. Seems so big when you say it; but really, scattered above and beyond all the millions of worlds, the millions of people- so few. So few and rare and fine. Never enough of them. And every time you meet one, it's a miracle. I think- I think I'm calling you a miracle." She's in his arms, with her elbows crooked around his neck, and he's not sure how it happened, and he doesn't mind. Except she's not breathing. "Rose- are you breathing ?"
"Not really."
"Tonight you-" he stops, rests his nose against her throat. It's soft as a new peach. "You. That boy- Tommy- we saved the world, and that was brilliant, but you saw that sad little man walking away, and you saw everything- the loneliness, the love. We saved the world, Rose, but you-" he smiles into her collarbone. "You make it worth saving. Worth living in."
She's silent for a long minute, stroking the nape of his neck.
"Well," she says. "Thanks."
"Thanks ?" He squirms out of her grasp, holds her shoulders, notes their delicious softness and moves quickly on. She's blushing. "That's it ? Thanks ?"
"M'not a poet either- Ruffles," she says, embarassed, and kisses him.
It's a perfectly ordinary kiss, as human kisses go. Saliva and scent, the warmth of her mouth on his, dipping at the curves, caressing. Ordinary, real, wonderful. So very Rose to him, in any language; particularly the secretive dialects of the body. His hands find her face, stroke her jaw while she digs a little deeper, scrapes her tongue against his teeth with a moan. He's sighing into her. When she licks her lips and flutters a hair's breadth from his skin, kissing the corners of his mouth, he opens his eyes. "I thought-" she starts, and giggles. "Thought you'd taste different."
"Different how ?"
"Dunno." Her tongue's between her teeth again- that tongue. New uses. Intense uses; his brain hiccups, drunkenly, and he shifts his hipbone against her, bumping pleasantly together like swings. "Like comets or asteroids. Strawberry jam. Thank God you don't taste like Bakelite."
"I haven't- wait. Yes. Who told you ?"
"Tommy," she grins. "Said you licked it like a spoon. You nutter," she says casually, cuffing him across the ear. He takes the opportunity to lean sideways and kiss her again, this time a little more forcefully. It's a bend and sway, her hair falling off her shoulders, hanging behind her neck; the neck he's pulling closer. He parts her lips with his own and nibbles them, idly, wondering at the simplicity of kisses. A simplicity he's envied her species, oh, forever. "Are you-" she says blurrily, against his mouth, "thinking about this ?"
"Yes," he nods. With great enthusiasm. "Gods, yes. Thinking and thinking and thinking. Really terrific, super thoughts. You'd like them. I'm going to tell you all about them."
Rose rolls her eyes.
In an instant she's a flash of satin, flipping one perfect pink thigh over and straddling him; pinning his hands on the railing of the bench before he's produced a sound in protest. She snaps her hips against his as she kisses him again, indelicately, stretching her fingers along his own, tracing the pulse in his hands with the tips of her fingernails. She leans ever so slightly and she's burning a trail down his throat, sucking at the collarbone where his tie's been loosened. The sudden ferocity startles him, flashes white blankness in the catacomb behind his eyes. He stares at her, hips arching, pupils dark, mouth slack, rumpled and ready.
"Still thinking ?" she whispers, to the doubled- quadrupled, maybe- pulse in his throat.
"Murp," he says.
"Just how I like you," she murmurs, satisfied. "Articulate."
"Rose-" he says, warring with the electrical impulses screaming up and down- well, everywhere; coughing up his last reserves of control. Logic. Reason. She's rolling her hips again and erasing certain parts of history and space. "Rose- I should say, before we- while we- it'll change everything !" he blurts out. She looks at him as if he's swallowed a bug, or just selected a bug at random and decided to teach it Spanish.
"Good."
"Good ?" he asks. Raises an eyebrow. Oh, delightful. "Good. I guess we can stop- ah," he sighs, as she rocks against him, "uh- hiding in broom closets when there's really no need." He grins wickedly at her, sliding a hand up her thigh, earning a faint purr in return. "Or, we could start hiding in even smaller spaces and see where that takes us-"
"Shut up," she says, and makes him.