afterwards
afterwards, nine/rose, G
she tucks her head into his shoulder, not in the least surprised it fits. 1,665
The wind and rain outside is biting at the streets, howling down to blow umbrellas into faces, bending and breaking plastic, pouring down to ruin clothes and freeze fingers shoved deep into pockets. They were outside just half an hour ago, storm soaking them to the skin, the Doctor’s worried glances making her even colder.
But inside the bakery is warm and softly lit, heater making her sleepy. The Doctor has draped his leather jacket around her despite her protests that he’d be cold, and she inhales, pulling it tighter. Leaning her head on her tired arms, she watches the world sideways, her eyelids drifting shut like they’re pulled by gravity, lulled by the tinny speakers playing ‘Mad World’ and the scent of bread and sugar in the air.
“Oi,” the Doctor protests softly but firmly, reaching to squeeze her arm. “No sleeping yet: don’t fancy lugging you back to the TARDIS. Muscles have been through enough today, thanks.” He’s cheery, but she can sense real concern underneath, in the light pressure of his fingertips that slide down to not so subtly check her pulse.
“Mmm,” she hums incoherently. “Sorry.” Sending him a weak smile, she opens her eyes to his.
There’s a pause where he decides she’s not going to faint right this second, and then he scrapes his plate with his fork, carefully gathering up the remnants of banana bread. She’d ordered the coffee chocolate cake, and wolfed it down in a frenzy. It’s the only thing she’s eaten in nearly a day; no time for meals when you’re climbing mountains to save the baby chosen as that year’s sacrifice. Tiredness is singing in her bones, an aching throbbing in her head.
Like he’s read her thoughts, the Doctor frowns at her. “Should have stayed at the city,” he chastises, and brushes his thumb gently along the bruise that’s blooming on her cheek, eyes dark and maybe just a little furious. He had been, when that man had punched her. She’d never seen him so angry before, his mouth twisted into a tight sharp line as he knocked the soldier to the ground.
Sometimes she wonders whether he stores all the tenderness in him, uses it on her and the needy. He cups her cheek in his palm, rough fingers catching her skin. She closes her eyes out of either exhaustion or contentment, enjoying the moments he lets himself touch her. He doesn’t do it as often as she likes, but it’s dizzying when he does.
“Wasn’t going to leave you,” she murmurs and his hand drops to the metal table, a deep sigh rumbling through him. She glances up at him to find him watching her with a weary, sad look, like the one he gave her as the world burned in front of a glass window.
“Rose-“
“Not going to leave you,” she repeats, with a steely edge. The sooner he learns that the better. She’s not a child; she can make her own decisions, take her own risks. If she wants to follow him to the ends of the universe she will.
The Doctor’s huff disagrees, and he looks away towards the rain that’s pelting the window, back tense. He looks strangely vulnerable without his jacket, in only his moss green jumper. It’s her favourite one, for some reason. Not for the first time, she wonders what it’s like to kiss him.
They lapse into silence, broken only by Gary Jules and her groan as she shifts to sit upright, whole body protesting at the movement. She gazes at him blearily, blindly finding his hand and twining her fingers through it tightly. He’s not mad at her, just at himself. She knows his stupid guilty expression, and this is it. He’s thinking about the way she nearly collapsed, and the way Xanroc’s fist connected with her cheek, the cuts and grazes from the gravelly, sharp ground.
Silly man.
“Just,” she begins and waves her free hand. “Be happy. We saved that baby, reformed a tradition…”
His mouth quirks up. “They wanted to name the goddess of fertility after you,” he chuckles after a moment, and she smiles in return, although her cheeks are tinged red now. The people had been so grateful, giving out fervent thanks and hugs, no concept of personal space. After loudly debating which honor was to be bestowed on their most excellent saviours, they had settled on naming Rose the Goddess of Nurture and the Doctor her Guardian. They’d nearly been named Queen of Fertility and Consort, though, and that had been excruciating.
“Glad they didn’t,” she mutters, “with the way they would have had us celebrate.”
Normally the Doctor would roll his eyes, tell her that loads of cultures had a much more open sexuality than the repressed apes she belonged to. She waits for the lecture, but only gets his contemplating expression, maybe a little more intense than usual.
She’s tired; probably imagining his eyes on her mouth.
"Good day,” Rose says softly, clearing her throat and he jolts, looking away at the bored waitress on the night shift, behind the green counter.
“Yeah. S’pose the bits before the hike were nice enough,” he admits.
It really had been. The planet was beautiful; purple skies and deep green hills. Their cities were vibrant and loud, full of bustling people and impossible architecture. The Seven Seas market was full of alien trinkets and gadgets, everything from fluttery bits of fabric that were supposed to pass as clothes to shimmering gems set against soft velvet.
There’d been a gorgeous bracelet she’d wanted, set with deep blue stones the exact colour of the TARDIS, connected by a delicate golden chain that shimmered in the sun. She’d been digging for the local currency when the baby’s mother had come wailing and screaming down to the square. Maybe the Doctor would take her back tomorrow, if she asked nicely.
Some classical piano music starts up, radio crackling over Moonlight Sonata. The Doctor likes that one, plays it sometimes in the console room. She wonders if they could meet Mozart one day, hear it played like he’d written it.
Rose yawns, a jaw-breaking huge one, and the room blurs for a moment. “Time to go,” the Doctor says quietly, standing and helping her up. Her knees wobble a bit, but he slides an arm around her and tugs her close to his side. He’s been liberal with the touching tonight; she likes it more than she wants to admit.
“Thanks,” she says to the waitress as the door swings open and they’re assaulted by the gale-force wind, nearly knocking her off her feet.
She tucks her head into the Doctor’s shoulder, not in the least surprised at how perfectly it fits, because it’s all like that. Curves to angles, her head neatly under his chin, everything. And she likes it, even if she shouldn’t. Can’t help liking it when his arm tightens as they walk past two drunks on the sidewalk, and maybe that’s the exhaustion and delirium talking, but she’s never felt this safe before. She’s always safe when she’s with him.
Rain catches in the lamp-light and highlights the blue box at the end of the street. She thinks dreamily of her soft bed and comfy doona, of lying back and not moving again, ever.
“Nearly there,” he says against Rose’s head, lip muffled by her hair. Is it her imagination or are his fingers brushing the curve of her waist? The last few steps on the concrete come quickly, and the Doctor lets go of her to unlock the doors of the TARDIS. The comforting glow and hum washes over her as she steps inside.
“Off you pop, then,” the Doctor says. “Bed time.” He’s cheeky, but she can’t summon the effort to poke her tongue out at him or smack his shoulder. “Rose?”
“Yeah. Going,” she replies, and stands there for a second. “Going,” she repeats and staggers to the doorway, covering her yawn with her hand. She hears him laugh behind her, and then he’s steering her down the corridor, and she can hear his smile.
“One word about superior evolutionary systems,” she warns him, but he snickers anyway, pushing her bedroom door open and setting her down on the bed. His eyes are soft.
“Alright now?” he asks, already stepping back. She pulls him back with her out-of-control mouth, wincing as she says the words without thought.
“You could stay,” she blurts and then goes red. “Not like that ‘course, but if…I mean it’d help me sleep?” It comes out posed as an uncertain question and she’s worried it’s a line she’s crossed with him. They’ve never shared a bed, only napped in the same prison cell.
“Alright,” comes his answer, low and a bit rougher than she expected. “I will, then.”
She swallows and he moves closer, coming to sit on the end of her bed. “Um,” she gestures to her jeans and his leather jacket. “I haven’t got my pyjamas on,” she points out and it’s his turn to blush, to close his eyes and turn away while she slips on a pair of worn flannel bottoms and a loose shirt.
“Kay,” she murmurs once she’s done, and the slide of his belt coming out from his jeans makes her shiver a bit. Sinking down into the blankets, she faces the wall and hears the wet thud of his jumper on the floor. And then he’s curled around her, not a bit shy, pulling her against his chest and rolling so her mouth is touching his collarbone and his hand is twined in her hair. His legs tangle with hers and she finds the sound of his double heartbeats and listens quietly, skin against skin.
It’s about as intimate she thinks she’ll ever be with another living thing.
“Thanks,” she whispers and his breath catches.
“Rose,” he says rawly but she’s already gone, drifting in a deep dark sleep.
***
He doesn't tell her until morning that he’d bought that bracelet yesterday.