(no subject)
Eat Your Cake (And Have It, Too), Ten/Rose, R
But … no, no, no, no! This can’t be right. His little surprise is supposed to lead to hugs and crumb nibbling and perhaps even the chance to lick away a bit of errant frosting from the corner of Rose’s mouth! 2,905 w.
A/N: This story was written for Challenge 77. It's gone from being a little late to a lot late, but ... here it is, just the same. Happy Birthday, Rose Tyler!
The TARDIS dims the kitchen lights as the Doctor slowly carries a fat square of sheet cake - an ornate corner piece brimming with flickering candles - over to the table where Rose sits, beaming up at him.
The Doctor sings her the song he knows is obligatory for English-speaking humans on this particular occasion. He sings it just to see the surprised look on Rose’s face - to impress her. Brown eyes and pinstripes now, but he still loves being impressive - especially to Rose. She giggles as his voice cracks on the high note. Apparently, it is impossible for any species to hit that particular note, or at least he tells her as much. She rolls her eyes at his explanation, but follows it up with a brilliant smile he happily reciprocates.
Rose’s eyes widen when she realizes that the Doctor has placed 20 lit candles on one slice of cake. She worries for her eyebrows.
“Tryin’ to set the TARDIS on fire … again?” Rose quips as she gives his hand a thank-you squeeze. She closes her eyes and pauses for just a moment before she leans in to blow out all of the candles with one, long exhale.
Making her wish, the Doctor guesses, recognizing another ritual associated with this holiday. Time slows for him as Rose pauses and shutters her lids. He ponders the smoke from the burning wicks as it wafts and mingles with her eyelashes. He watches Rose’s chest fall as her diaphragm and intercostal muscles work with her lungs and trachea to expel carbon dioxide - and her own ephemeral scent - out of her body and into the air. He studies the shape her mouth takes as she extinguishes her candles; the pucker of her full lips blossom into a perfect mirror image of the sugary pink rosette piped onto her corner of cake. Both of which he wouldn’t mind sampling tonight … but tonight isn’t about his wishes.
“Aren’t you gonna have a piece, too?” Rose wonders aloud, noticing he’s only brought over the one slice.
Plunking down in the chair next to her, the Doctor hands Rose one of the two forks he’s fished out of a kitchen drawer. Though it’s a broad table that can easily seat ten, the pair sits as they always do: close enough for a wool-sheathed thigh to brush and press against its denim-clad companion, and vice versa.
“Nope,” he sighs. “Well, yes, if you’re willing to share.” He looks at her pointedly, indicating that it is not exactly a request.
“No way! Get your own!” Rose teases, half-pretending to defend her cake with crossed forearms hovering above it. Only half-pretending.
“I can’t,” he declares, as his wiggling fingers threaten an Oncoming Tickle. His stance makes Rose drop her arms, leaving her cake pitifully defenseless. Works every time. “This is the only piece.”
The Doctor is about to claim a gloaty forkful of victory for himself when he notices that Rose is no longer playing along. Not playing along and … just a bit sulky?
But … no, no, no, no! This can’t be right. His little surprise is supposed to lead to hugs and crumb nibbling and perhaps even the chance to lick away a bit of errant frosting from the corner of Rose’s mouth!
“What is it?” he asks, perplexed.
“S’nothing. Stupid, really. S’just - you’ve been not-so-subtly hinting all day that you got me a sorta … special cake for my birthday.”
“Quite right,” he nods, not following her.
“Yeah, well. While this piece looks lovely - the rose is a nice touch, by the way,” she says with a dip of her chin toward the plate, “I thought you might’ve splashed out for a whole cake. And …” she swipes a finger through the frosting and brings it to the tip of her protruding pink tongue. Rose presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, testing the crunch of sugar grit upon her palate. “Is it from Tesco? I recognize the frosting because it’s the same kind of cake my mum gets me every year: pink roses with green lettering.”
“Yes, exactly!” the Doctor chirps enthusiastically, preparing himself for the imminent hug and crumb nibbling.
“Sooo, it’s special because it’s the type my mum used to buy?”
“No, Rose - It’s special because it is a cake your mum literally bought. As in, one she purchased for your birthday,” he clarifies, positively preening at his own cleverness, now.
“Oh.” She quirks up an eyebrow. “Really? So, why aren’t we celebrating with mum, then? Don’t you think it’s a bit mean to leave her out, if she bought it?” Rose gives him a playful poke in the ribs. “Tryin’ to have your cake and eat it, too, Doctor?” Another poke, laughing now. “Still rude!”
The Doctor yelps and shifts away slightly. Standing up, he switches gears and begins to methodically pluck the candles from Rose’s cake, popping each sugared end into his mouth to lave clean. The commercial frosting is rubbish; it’s much too sweet, even for him. Still …
Rose follows him across the kitchen to reclaim her now candle-less piece of cake. As she tries to retreat back to the table with it, the Doctor takes Rose’s free hand and begins reeling her back to him. She holds the cake plate high and away, for safekeeping.
“Rose, I said it’s from a cake your mum bought. I didn’t say when she bought it.” Oh yes, the sugar is kicking in, he thinks. He is practically tittering now, although that may just his excitement for Rose's birthday surprise unfolding.
“Hmm, okay,” she grins, as he deftly spins her into his chest. “Exactly how many candles were on this cake the first time ’round?”
“Care to venture a guess?” Rolled into his arm, Rose is now standing nose to nose with the Doctor. So close, she can count the freckles on his nose and smell the frosting on his breath.
“Not really. I just want my cake,” she deadpans, twirling away from him as far as the tether of their entwined fingers will allow.
“Rose Tyler - You. Are. A. Spoilsport!” Rose just giggles. “Well, I suppose it is your birthday. Fine, as the song goes, it had … Siiix-teeen Candles!” The Doctor croons as he snaps Rose back to his chest, in an attempt to be debonair.
Rose is standing too close to the Doctor for him to see the blush that is rapidly seeping across her face and chest. She looks from him to the cake, and back again.
“What? This is from my sixteenth birthday cake?”
“Bingo! You told me once that you had a big party that night and blew out your candles, BUT … by the time you went to get a slice of cake, it was all gone.” He paused for dramatic effect, smirking at her. “Guess who got the last slice?”
Rose didn’t notice the way the Doctor paused or smirked. She was too busy remembering who had the first piece.
Sixteen.
Freshly minted breasts and hips beaming out an invisible frequency boys have finally started to notice and gravitate toward. Rose feels the power of her new curves, and likes it. Finds she wants to test those powers - stretch them to see how far they reach.
Rose pulls Jimmy Stone into her orbit, and it almost seems too easy.
Jimmy Stone with the great hair and an unwavering penchant for tight black jeans and 14-eye Doc Martens. Jimmy Stone who’s in a band and is going to be completely famous by the time he’s 21. Jimmy Stone who never even noticed Rose was ALIVE last year, much less would’ve asked her out, back then.
One year and a bra-cup size later, Rose is skipping tumbling practice to watch Jimmy Stone rehearse with his band. Even ditches school once.
They’ve been together for 6 weeks!
Six weeks of very little talking. Six weeks of kissing and groping each other on the bus, in the park, in her stairwell - wherever and whenever they can.
On the night of her sixteenth birthday party, Rose whispers a promise in his ear right before she blows out her candles: tonight.
Rose knows he thinks he picked her, but he’s wrong.
Cheers go up from Rose’s rowdy mates as she snuffs out her candles in one go, a din loud enough to rattle the paper-thin walls of the Tyler flat. Bottles, cans and plastic cups are bumped together in Rose’s honor, by her mates. Well, by everyone but Mickey, who had been a complete prat all night and then left without a word. She has no idea what that was about.
Her mum sticks around the party just long enough to watch Rose blow out her candles. Before escaping down the hall to Bev’s flat, she pulls Rose aside to press a strip of condoms into her palm, ignoring her daughter’s embarrassed denials and protests. Jackie just shakes her head, looks Rose squarely in the eye and reminds her that she was sixteen once, too.
The music is blaring and Jimmy Stone’s arms are around her waist. He pulls her back against him, letting Rose feel the hard evidence of his excitement for her. It makes her want to both skitter away and press herself more firmly against him, all at once. She takes a sip of lager and, never afraid of jumping, goes for the second option.
It’s not long before Rose is whispering a squealing request in Shareen’s ear to save her a piece of cake with a rose. She swears to tell Shareen everything, tomorrow.
In Rose’s bedroom, they are fast and fumbling - shaky fingers and fervent kisses. It’s not long before their clothes are half-off: Rose with her knickers hanging from one leg and her denim skirt pushed up around her waist, like a belt, while he has his black jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs and his t-shirt off entirely. Rose feels like her skin is on fire everywhere he touches her.
Jimmy Stone with the calloused fingertips, his pads thickened from the press of steel guitar strings and an unrelenting obsession with The Dead Kennedys.
Rose thinks about his rough fingers as they roam under her shirt - wonders if they will feel different when he touches her in the places only her own fingers have known, until now. She wonders what song he will draw from her skin when he riffs circles around her nipples, or strums that spot between her legs … just there.
He does.
It turns out the music doesn’t flow from his fingers, but from the party still raging on without them, in the rest of the flat. Rose turns scarlet as she realizes they’ve put on an old CD from her collection that she hasn’t listened to since she was, like, thirteen. Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice the music (he’s busy retrieving a foil packet from his wallet), but Rose finds it difficult to block out her mates loudly and over-enthusiastically singing along to the first song on the album.
… MMM MMM MMM Buzz Me Up to Heaven, Baby …
Rose has imagined this moment so many times. She’s read all of her mum’s romance novels at least 5 times each, and gets what all the coded phrases like, “reaching her crisis,” mean. She’s read every sex article she can get her hands on in every magazine possible. Rose has taken at least a million sex quizzes, and they all pronounce her fantastic in bed. She’s ready for this.
She fakes her first orgasm.
Hours later, after everyone has gone home, Rose remembers to look for her piece of birthday cake. Searching through the fridge, she’s stunned to discover that someone has stolen her cake. She knows it’s been stolen because the thief had the cheek to write, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROSE TYLER, with a bit of spare frosting, before putting the empty plate back in the fridge.
What kind of stupid WANKER …
“Rose? Rose, are you listening?”
The Doctor shines his best megawatt smile at her when he recaptures her attention.
“I was just saying that the phrase, “Have your cake and eat it, too,” gets it all wrong. If you have your cake and eat it, too, you actually have nothing in the end … zilch … nada … the cake has left the building!” He takes the plate from Rose’s hands and spins away from her with it, only to come rushing back and hold it up to her, before continuing.
“Ah, but if you simply shuffle the words to say, “Eat your cake and have it, too,” well … the world is yours! More importantly, the cake is still yours. You see, it’s a simple matter of -”
“Wait,” Rose interrupts. "Lemme get this straight, Doctor. You were there, that night?"
"Yep."
"In my flat?"
"Yep.” He drags the word out and pops his “p.”
"And you took the last piece of cake?"
“ ‘Happy Birthday, Rose Tyler!’ ” The Doctor is near bursting now, so impressed is he with his own cleverness. He notes that Rose must be excited too, as her cheeks are turning quite pink.
"But what about crossing timelines?” she sputters. “What if you had seen me in the flat? I mean, what if I'd seen you? Then what?"
“Rose, I think … I think you were a little busy."
The Doctor waggles his eyebrows at her.
Rose wants to sonic a hole in the floor and fall through it.
The Doctor finally breaks the silence by offering to put the kettle on. With that, he spins on his heels and his head disappears into the cupboard, searching for mugs and tea. Rose presses her fingertips into her eyelids and, shaking her head, let’s out an embarrassed exhale through her nose.
Recovering quickly, Rose watches the Doctor - the mad alien git with the good hair and an unwavering penchant for tight brown pinstripes and hightop plimsolls - as he skibbles around the kitchen to make her tea.
The one who, as it turns out, literally stole a part of her youth just so that he could give it back to her.
Four years, Rose thinks to herself. Feels like four minutes ago in some ways, and four lifetimes ago in others. She thinks of that younger version of herself, who thought she knew so much about everything. Rose thinks about the sort of girl she is today and how far she has traveled since her sixteenth year.
Thinks about what she likes now and what she wants now and who she wants.
Wants now.
Well, it’s her birthday, isn’t it?
Rose studies the Doctor, who has returned to his frosting-induced rant about cake and semantics. She bites down on her lower lip to stop herself from kissing him on the spot.
Rose knows he thinks he picked her, but he’s wrong.
The Doctor hands Rose a mug of tea and her cake plate back. Rose accepts both and gently sets them down upon the table, her eyes never breaking from the Doctor’s. They smile and step into a well-practiced embrace, hugging each other in that special way they have that completely dismisses the need for outmoded concepts like air and personal space. Rose is the first to speak.
“Thank you for my birthday "fix," Doctor. It’s just what I wanted, even though I hadn’t quite realized I wanted it.”
“Well, it’s your birthday, so you can have everything you want. Eat your cake and have it, too,” he says, grinning at her like the cat that got the (butter)cream.
Rose arches her eyebrows at him, a smile teasing her lips. “Doctor, are we still talking about birthday cake?”
He pulls his face back a little bit to make eye contact, but keeps his body pressed to hers. “I don’t know, Rose. Are we?”
Their identical smiles brilliantly unwrap themselves as understanding and agreement blooms across their faces. Rose thinks it’s like getting exactly what you wish for - like getting the best present.
“Doctor, there’s one more thing I’d like to improve upon, if we are trying to right wrongs from my Sweet Sixteen.” She pauses before adding with a cheeky grin, “Not in here, though.”
The Doctor’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally throws his head back with a hearty laugh. Hugging her tightly, he picks Rose up and spins her around. “Not in here is lovely. Brilliant. Molto bene!”
Yep, she chuckles to herself, as her toes touch down again. Still got it.
Rose eyes her new-old birthday cake and considers breaking off a bite to pop in her mouth. Instead, she breaks free from the Doctor’s arms and crosses the kitchen. With a hand on her hip, Rose leans her weight against the doorjamb and smiles innocently at him.
“Doctor?” she beckons.
One word from Rose and the Doctor is pulled into her orbit; he immediately moves to close the distance between them. “Yes, Rose?”
“Does the TARDIS have any Billie Piper?”
“Oh, I should think so!”
“Good,” Rose purrs, her eyes bright with mischief. She holds out her hand to him. “Because I have a birthday request to make. Come with me?”
He does.
- - -
It is the second time Rose Tyler misses having that sodding piece of cake.
Happy birthday, my love,
I'm your angel,
I'll give you everything in my magic power.
So make a wish and I'll let it come true for you.
Tra-la-la-la-la-la.
~Yoko Ono, "Yes, I'm Your Angel," from Double Fantasy
But … no, no, no, no! This can’t be right. His little surprise is supposed to lead to hugs and crumb nibbling and perhaps even the chance to lick away a bit of errant frosting from the corner of Rose’s mouth! 2,905 w.
A/N: This story was written for Challenge 77. It's gone from being a little late to a lot late, but ... here it is, just the same. Happy Birthday, Rose Tyler!
The TARDIS dims the kitchen lights as the Doctor slowly carries a fat square of sheet cake - an ornate corner piece brimming with flickering candles - over to the table where Rose sits, beaming up at him.
The Doctor sings her the song he knows is obligatory for English-speaking humans on this particular occasion. He sings it just to see the surprised look on Rose’s face - to impress her. Brown eyes and pinstripes now, but he still loves being impressive - especially to Rose. She giggles as his voice cracks on the high note. Apparently, it is impossible for any species to hit that particular note, or at least he tells her as much. She rolls her eyes at his explanation, but follows it up with a brilliant smile he happily reciprocates.
Rose’s eyes widen when she realizes that the Doctor has placed 20 lit candles on one slice of cake. She worries for her eyebrows.
“Tryin’ to set the TARDIS on fire … again?” Rose quips as she gives his hand a thank-you squeeze. She closes her eyes and pauses for just a moment before she leans in to blow out all of the candles with one, long exhale.
Making her wish, the Doctor guesses, recognizing another ritual associated with this holiday. Time slows for him as Rose pauses and shutters her lids. He ponders the smoke from the burning wicks as it wafts and mingles with her eyelashes. He watches Rose’s chest fall as her diaphragm and intercostal muscles work with her lungs and trachea to expel carbon dioxide - and her own ephemeral scent - out of her body and into the air. He studies the shape her mouth takes as she extinguishes her candles; the pucker of her full lips blossom into a perfect mirror image of the sugary pink rosette piped onto her corner of cake. Both of which he wouldn’t mind sampling tonight … but tonight isn’t about his wishes.
“Aren’t you gonna have a piece, too?” Rose wonders aloud, noticing he’s only brought over the one slice.
Plunking down in the chair next to her, the Doctor hands Rose one of the two forks he’s fished out of a kitchen drawer. Though it’s a broad table that can easily seat ten, the pair sits as they always do: close enough for a wool-sheathed thigh to brush and press against its denim-clad companion, and vice versa.
“Nope,” he sighs. “Well, yes, if you’re willing to share.” He looks at her pointedly, indicating that it is not exactly a request.
“No way! Get your own!” Rose teases, half-pretending to defend her cake with crossed forearms hovering above it. Only half-pretending.
“I can’t,” he declares, as his wiggling fingers threaten an Oncoming Tickle. His stance makes Rose drop her arms, leaving her cake pitifully defenseless. Works every time. “This is the only piece.”
The Doctor is about to claim a gloaty forkful of victory for himself when he notices that Rose is no longer playing along. Not playing along and … just a bit sulky?
But … no, no, no, no! This can’t be right. His little surprise is supposed to lead to hugs and crumb nibbling and perhaps even the chance to lick away a bit of errant frosting from the corner of Rose’s mouth!
“What is it?” he asks, perplexed.
“S’nothing. Stupid, really. S’just - you’ve been not-so-subtly hinting all day that you got me a sorta … special cake for my birthday.”
“Quite right,” he nods, not following her.
“Yeah, well. While this piece looks lovely - the rose is a nice touch, by the way,” she says with a dip of her chin toward the plate, “I thought you might’ve splashed out for a whole cake. And …” she swipes a finger through the frosting and brings it to the tip of her protruding pink tongue. Rose presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, testing the crunch of sugar grit upon her palate. “Is it from Tesco? I recognize the frosting because it’s the same kind of cake my mum gets me every year: pink roses with green lettering.”
“Yes, exactly!” the Doctor chirps enthusiastically, preparing himself for the imminent hug and crumb nibbling.
“Sooo, it’s special because it’s the type my mum used to buy?”
“No, Rose - It’s special because it is a cake your mum literally bought. As in, one she purchased for your birthday,” he clarifies, positively preening at his own cleverness, now.
“Oh.” She quirks up an eyebrow. “Really? So, why aren’t we celebrating with mum, then? Don’t you think it’s a bit mean to leave her out, if she bought it?” Rose gives him a playful poke in the ribs. “Tryin’ to have your cake and eat it, too, Doctor?” Another poke, laughing now. “Still rude!”
The Doctor yelps and shifts away slightly. Standing up, he switches gears and begins to methodically pluck the candles from Rose’s cake, popping each sugared end into his mouth to lave clean. The commercial frosting is rubbish; it’s much too sweet, even for him. Still …
Rose follows him across the kitchen to reclaim her now candle-less piece of cake. As she tries to retreat back to the table with it, the Doctor takes Rose’s free hand and begins reeling her back to him. She holds the cake plate high and away, for safekeeping.
“Rose, I said it’s from a cake your mum bought. I didn’t say when she bought it.” Oh yes, the sugar is kicking in, he thinks. He is practically tittering now, although that may just his excitement for Rose's birthday surprise unfolding.
“Hmm, okay,” she grins, as he deftly spins her into his chest. “Exactly how many candles were on this cake the first time ’round?”
“Care to venture a guess?” Rolled into his arm, Rose is now standing nose to nose with the Doctor. So close, she can count the freckles on his nose and smell the frosting on his breath.
“Not really. I just want my cake,” she deadpans, twirling away from him as far as the tether of their entwined fingers will allow.
“Rose Tyler - You. Are. A. Spoilsport!” Rose just giggles. “Well, I suppose it is your birthday. Fine, as the song goes, it had … Siiix-teeen Candles!” The Doctor croons as he snaps Rose back to his chest, in an attempt to be debonair.
Rose is standing too close to the Doctor for him to see the blush that is rapidly seeping across her face and chest. She looks from him to the cake, and back again.
“What? This is from my sixteenth birthday cake?”
“Bingo! You told me once that you had a big party that night and blew out your candles, BUT … by the time you went to get a slice of cake, it was all gone.” He paused for dramatic effect, smirking at her. “Guess who got the last slice?”
Rose didn’t notice the way the Doctor paused or smirked. She was too busy remembering who had the first piece.
Sixteen.
Freshly minted breasts and hips beaming out an invisible frequency boys have finally started to notice and gravitate toward. Rose feels the power of her new curves, and likes it. Finds she wants to test those powers - stretch them to see how far they reach.
Rose pulls Jimmy Stone into her orbit, and it almost seems too easy.
Jimmy Stone with the great hair and an unwavering penchant for tight black jeans and 14-eye Doc Martens. Jimmy Stone who’s in a band and is going to be completely famous by the time he’s 21. Jimmy Stone who never even noticed Rose was ALIVE last year, much less would’ve asked her out, back then.
One year and a bra-cup size later, Rose is skipping tumbling practice to watch Jimmy Stone rehearse with his band. Even ditches school once.
They’ve been together for 6 weeks!
Six weeks of very little talking. Six weeks of kissing and groping each other on the bus, in the park, in her stairwell - wherever and whenever they can.
On the night of her sixteenth birthday party, Rose whispers a promise in his ear right before she blows out her candles: tonight.
Rose knows he thinks he picked her, but he’s wrong.
Cheers go up from Rose’s rowdy mates as she snuffs out her candles in one go, a din loud enough to rattle the paper-thin walls of the Tyler flat. Bottles, cans and plastic cups are bumped together in Rose’s honor, by her mates. Well, by everyone but Mickey, who had been a complete prat all night and then left without a word. She has no idea what that was about.
Her mum sticks around the party just long enough to watch Rose blow out her candles. Before escaping down the hall to Bev’s flat, she pulls Rose aside to press a strip of condoms into her palm, ignoring her daughter’s embarrassed denials and protests. Jackie just shakes her head, looks Rose squarely in the eye and reminds her that she was sixteen once, too.
The music is blaring and Jimmy Stone’s arms are around her waist. He pulls her back against him, letting Rose feel the hard evidence of his excitement for her. It makes her want to both skitter away and press herself more firmly against him, all at once. She takes a sip of lager and, never afraid of jumping, goes for the second option.
It’s not long before Rose is whispering a squealing request in Shareen’s ear to save her a piece of cake with a rose. She swears to tell Shareen everything, tomorrow.
In Rose’s bedroom, they are fast and fumbling - shaky fingers and fervent kisses. It’s not long before their clothes are half-off: Rose with her knickers hanging from one leg and her denim skirt pushed up around her waist, like a belt, while he has his black jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs and his t-shirt off entirely. Rose feels like her skin is on fire everywhere he touches her.
Jimmy Stone with the calloused fingertips, his pads thickened from the press of steel guitar strings and an unrelenting obsession with The Dead Kennedys.
Rose thinks about his rough fingers as they roam under her shirt - wonders if they will feel different when he touches her in the places only her own fingers have known, until now. She wonders what song he will draw from her skin when he riffs circles around her nipples, or strums that spot between her legs … just there.
He does.
It turns out the music doesn’t flow from his fingers, but from the party still raging on without them, in the rest of the flat. Rose turns scarlet as she realizes they’ve put on an old CD from her collection that she hasn’t listened to since she was, like, thirteen. Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice the music (he’s busy retrieving a foil packet from his wallet), but Rose finds it difficult to block out her mates loudly and over-enthusiastically singing along to the first song on the album.
… MMM MMM MMM Buzz Me Up to Heaven, Baby …
Rose has imagined this moment so many times. She’s read all of her mum’s romance novels at least 5 times each, and gets what all the coded phrases like, “reaching her crisis,” mean. She’s read every sex article she can get her hands on in every magazine possible. Rose has taken at least a million sex quizzes, and they all pronounce her fantastic in bed. She’s ready for this.
She fakes her first orgasm.
Hours later, after everyone has gone home, Rose remembers to look for her piece of birthday cake. Searching through the fridge, she’s stunned to discover that someone has stolen her cake. She knows it’s been stolen because the thief had the cheek to write, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROSE TYLER, with a bit of spare frosting, before putting the empty plate back in the fridge.
What kind of stupid WANKER …
“Rose? Rose, are you listening?”
The Doctor shines his best megawatt smile at her when he recaptures her attention.
“I was just saying that the phrase, “Have your cake and eat it, too,” gets it all wrong. If you have your cake and eat it, too, you actually have nothing in the end … zilch … nada … the cake has left the building!” He takes the plate from Rose’s hands and spins away from her with it, only to come rushing back and hold it up to her, before continuing.
“Ah, but if you simply shuffle the words to say, “Eat your cake and have it, too,” well … the world is yours! More importantly, the cake is still yours. You see, it’s a simple matter of -”
“Wait,” Rose interrupts. "Lemme get this straight, Doctor. You were there, that night?"
"Yep."
"In my flat?"
"Yep.” He drags the word out and pops his “p.”
"And you took the last piece of cake?"
“ ‘Happy Birthday, Rose Tyler!’ ” The Doctor is near bursting now, so impressed is he with his own cleverness. He notes that Rose must be excited too, as her cheeks are turning quite pink.
"But what about crossing timelines?” she sputters. “What if you had seen me in the flat? I mean, what if I'd seen you? Then what?"
“Rose, I think … I think you were a little busy."
The Doctor waggles his eyebrows at her.
Rose wants to sonic a hole in the floor and fall through it.
The Doctor finally breaks the silence by offering to put the kettle on. With that, he spins on his heels and his head disappears into the cupboard, searching for mugs and tea. Rose presses her fingertips into her eyelids and, shaking her head, let’s out an embarrassed exhale through her nose.
Recovering quickly, Rose watches the Doctor - the mad alien git with the good hair and an unwavering penchant for tight brown pinstripes and hightop plimsolls - as he skibbles around the kitchen to make her tea.
The one who, as it turns out, literally stole a part of her youth just so that he could give it back to her.
Four years, Rose thinks to herself. Feels like four minutes ago in some ways, and four lifetimes ago in others. She thinks of that younger version of herself, who thought she knew so much about everything. Rose thinks about the sort of girl she is today and how far she has traveled since her sixteenth year.
Thinks about what she likes now and what she wants now and who she wants.
Wants now.
Well, it’s her birthday, isn’t it?
Rose studies the Doctor, who has returned to his frosting-induced rant about cake and semantics. She bites down on her lower lip to stop herself from kissing him on the spot.
Rose knows he thinks he picked her, but he’s wrong.
The Doctor hands Rose a mug of tea and her cake plate back. Rose accepts both and gently sets them down upon the table, her eyes never breaking from the Doctor’s. They smile and step into a well-practiced embrace, hugging each other in that special way they have that completely dismisses the need for outmoded concepts like air and personal space. Rose is the first to speak.
“Thank you for my birthday "fix," Doctor. It’s just what I wanted, even though I hadn’t quite realized I wanted it.”
“Well, it’s your birthday, so you can have everything you want. Eat your cake and have it, too,” he says, grinning at her like the cat that got the (butter)cream.
Rose arches her eyebrows at him, a smile teasing her lips. “Doctor, are we still talking about birthday cake?”
He pulls his face back a little bit to make eye contact, but keeps his body pressed to hers. “I don’t know, Rose. Are we?”
Their identical smiles brilliantly unwrap themselves as understanding and agreement blooms across their faces. Rose thinks it’s like getting exactly what you wish for - like getting the best present.
“Doctor, there’s one more thing I’d like to improve upon, if we are trying to right wrongs from my Sweet Sixteen.” She pauses before adding with a cheeky grin, “Not in here, though.”
The Doctor’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally throws his head back with a hearty laugh. Hugging her tightly, he picks Rose up and spins her around. “Not in here is lovely. Brilliant. Molto bene!”
Yep, she chuckles to herself, as her toes touch down again. Still got it.
Rose eyes her new-old birthday cake and considers breaking off a bite to pop in her mouth. Instead, she breaks free from the Doctor’s arms and crosses the kitchen. With a hand on her hip, Rose leans her weight against the doorjamb and smiles innocently at him.
“Doctor?” she beckons.
One word from Rose and the Doctor is pulled into her orbit; he immediately moves to close the distance between them. “Yes, Rose?”
“Does the TARDIS have any Billie Piper?”
“Oh, I should think so!”
“Good,” Rose purrs, her eyes bright with mischief. She holds out her hand to him. “Because I have a birthday request to make. Come with me?”
He does.
- - -
It is the second time Rose Tyler misses having that sodding piece of cake.
Happy birthday, my love,
I'm your angel,
I'll give you everything in my magic power.
So make a wish and I'll let it come true for you.
Tra-la-la-la-la-la.
~Yoko Ono, "Yes, I'm Your Angel," from Double Fantasy