"Summer in the City," DW, Rose/Polly
Title: Summer in the City
Author: aces
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Rose Tyler/Polly Wright
Rating: around PG-13
Cliché: Morning after/fuzzy night before
Summary: Travelling with the Doctor was a little more complicated than Rose had expected.
A/N: Polly is in fact from 1966 and travelled with the First and Second Doctors. She is also utterly fab, even if she is cheating on Ben (her cockney sailor) with Rose.
“Mmm.”
Rose didn’t want to wake up. The sheets were soft and warm, the bed practically a sleep drug, and even the sunlight was cooperating by gently introducing itself rather than glaring at her accusingly for having a lie-in. There was only one slight disturbance within this perfect setting, and it took Rose a good five minutes to realize what that problem was.
Her room on the TARDIS didn’t have windows.
Still unwilling to open her eyes, Rose frowned and patted the bed around her cautiously. It was definitely a lot comfier than her bed on the ship. And wider. And, judging by the soft, warm skin she had just patted, it contained another person.
“Mmmmmm.”
Rose realized, at last, that she wasn’t the one murmuring in her sleep. She finally managed to force her eyes open. Squinting into the suddenly too-bright, accusingly glaring sunlight, she had to rub her eyes. Even then, she still had to wait another couple moments for them to focus on the person lying next to her.
Oh.
The person lying next to her stretched, stretched so hard her hands pressed against the headboard and her toes reached beyond the end of the bed. The shifting of the bed from her movements made Rose aware that her head ached abominably, and her stomach roiled uncomfortably. “I feel marvellous,” the other woman said and turned onto her side, opening her eyes to smile at Rose.
Then her smile, dazzling and as warming as the sun, slowly turned to a vaguely puzzled frown as she took in Rose.
“Oh,” she said, sounding mildly surprised.
*
Her name was Polly, and she made Rose coffee.
Rose sat at the small table in Polly’s little kitchenette, clutching the mug in both hands. Currently she wore a bathrobe too long for her, courtesy of her hostess, and her own underwear, because she felt odd wearing nothing at all under the borrowed robe. Her head still ached slightly, she had a funny taste in the back of her extremely dry mouth, and she had so far done an admirable job refraining from throwing up all over Polly’s lino.
Polly was currently singing in the shower.
There were three unusual things about the situation Rose currently found herself in. One: she had not had many one-night stands (in her admittedly short love life). Two: she had had even fewer one-night stands with other women. Three: she had had absolutely no one-night stands with other women hailing from the year 1966.
Travelling with the Doctor was a little more complicated than Rose had expected.
Rose heard the water turn off in the bathroom, and Polly continued singing “I’m Only Sleeping,” her voice reverberating and muffled through the intervening walls. Rose frowned. How the woman could be so bloody cheerful made no sense at all. She’d had just as much to drink as Rose had, the night before. More, probably.
Right. Last night. What had that all been about again?
Rose remembered the Doctor letting her loose in 1960s London yesterday afternoon. She’d found a dress, tie-dyed and short, in the wardrobe, and she’d left her hair down, long and straight. He had taken it into his head that he needed a replacement of the Animals’ debut album because he’d lost the original in some sort of Jettisoning Incident (about which he refused to explain, natch, but Rose had allowed this one to drop with just a roll of her eyes), and they had gone exploring.
She’d run into a group of people in the music store, and they all ended up going to a club in a basement somewhere. It was fab, they all said, the grooviest place to go, and Rose had been more than willing. The Doctor had shooed her off, saying he was too old to go dancing and that she should just call when she was ready. She’d looked back at him, once, as they trooped off, and he had waved.
There had been music, and drink, and laughing, and dancing. Lots of dancing. Rose had danced with every single person in that club, she had a feeling, judging by how sore her calves and thighs were this morning. She didn’t remember any particular faces or moments; it was a blur of hands, torsos, eyes, arms, feet, hair, legs.
She remembered Polly’s face, though. Well, obviously she did, seeing as how she’d just woken up next to it this morning. But she remembered Polly from last night, with abrupt clarity: eyelashes and cheekbones and a wide, grinning mouth framed by long, blonde hair, in a short dress and with long, long legs, chatting and laughing easily with everyone, dancing and drinking. Rose had seen her a lot last night but hadn’t had the chance to talk with her till late, as the night wore down and the cool, chill morning beckoned.
“I’m new in town,” Rose had found herself explaining.
“Oh, really,” Polly had said, eyebrows rising in amusement.
“Okay, I’ve just got back,” Rose had retorted with an easy grin. “And I’ve got nowhere to stay tonight-I couldn’t possibly call my friend now-and I was wondering…”
It had been so easy after that, Rose recalled as she set her coffee mug back on the table. Polly was out of the bathroom, back in her bedroom it seemed, judging by where “I’m Into Something Good” was now emanating from. Rose could feel her skin flushing, as more bits and pieces of last night came back.
The early morning-twilight? Is there a word for that brief time before sunrise, when the world is strangely silent and not quite light?-was cool, but Rose had felt warm, pressed up next to Polly in the back of the taxi. Polly had paid, and then they had run up the steps to her flat, holding hands. Rose practically had to sprint to keep up with Polly’s longer legs.
Rose’s fingers went to her lips, sitting at the kitchen table, as she remembered the night before. Skin, skin; Polly’s skin was so soft, soft and hot, and her eyelashes had tickled over Rose’s cheekbone, stomach. None of Rose’s boyfriends had had such soft skin; they always had scratches, scrapes, calluses, nicks and scars. Polly’s eyes were brilliantly blue, her mouth hot and inviting and curving up in a wicked grin, her hair almost as soft as her skin, and she had extremely clever fingers.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Rose shuddered, lightly.
Lips, skin, bones, and heat; so much heat. Rose felt hot just thinking about it, the snatches and glimpses of feather-soft touches she could remember, and wearing this bathrobe was becoming unbearable.
“Hullo!” Polly called out gaily as she tripped into the tiny kitchenette. She leant down and kissed Rose fully and thoroughly on the lips, and Rose was startled at how deep and pervasive her disappointment was when Polly broke the contact. “Is the coffee alright? Would you like some tea instead?”
“No, no, this is great,” Rose smiled weakly. “Thanks for the aspirins too; the headache’s almost gone.”
Polly smiled a Cheshire-cat smile, and Rose shuddered, lightly. “Good,” Polly said. “Would you like a shower?”
“Yeah,” Rose said, standing up. “That’d be-that’d be fantastic.”
“Go ahead,” said Polly, leaning back against the sink. “Towels and things should already all be in there.”
Rose put on her dress from yesterday after the shower. It felt gritty, stretched; and she thought she might remember tearing it off last night in her hazy determination to get naked as soon as possible. She stepped back into the kitchen hesitantly, and there Polly was, curled up on one of the two chairs, drinking out of Rose’s cup, reading a magazine, and looking as pristine and beautiful and soft as she had last night.
“I-I should go,” Rose said. “My friend…”
“Yes, alright,” Polly said, laying aside the magazine. “Shall I see you at the club tonight?”
“Um.” Rose blinked. “Probably not. I’m just in London for a couple days…you know how it is…”
“Oh yes,” Polly nodded and stood up, walking Rose to the door. “I had a lovely time last night,” she said, leaning into Rose confidingly with an easy, teasing smile. “I do remember that much at least.” She lightly stroked the curve of Rose’s jawline, ending with a tap of her fingernail against Rose’s lips, and Rose blinked again, remembering how Polly had made that exact same move last night, thoughtfully, as she had held Rose pressed against her front door and said, “I hope you’re not too tired yet…”
“So did I,” Rose said firmly and leant up to give Polly the best possible good-bye snog she could manage.
Polly grinned, Cheshire-cat smile, and opened the door. “Do call again the next time you’re in London,” she said with a wicked glint in her brilliant blue eyes. She tossed her hair, winked, and closed the door.
Rose turned away and wandered out of the building, vaguely thinking she ought to give the Doctor a call. At the moment, though, she was far more interested in remembering as much as possible from the night before.
She tapped her lips with her finger and grinned softly to herself.
“Fab,” Rose said.
Author: aces
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Rose Tyler/Polly Wright
Rating: around PG-13
Cliché: Morning after/fuzzy night before
Summary: Travelling with the Doctor was a little more complicated than Rose had expected.
A/N: Polly is in fact from 1966 and travelled with the First and Second Doctors. She is also utterly fab, even if she is cheating on Ben (her cockney sailor) with Rose.
“Mmm.”
Rose didn’t want to wake up. The sheets were soft and warm, the bed practically a sleep drug, and even the sunlight was cooperating by gently introducing itself rather than glaring at her accusingly for having a lie-in. There was only one slight disturbance within this perfect setting, and it took Rose a good five minutes to realize what that problem was.
Her room on the TARDIS didn’t have windows.
Still unwilling to open her eyes, Rose frowned and patted the bed around her cautiously. It was definitely a lot comfier than her bed on the ship. And wider. And, judging by the soft, warm skin she had just patted, it contained another person.
“Mmmmmm.”
Rose realized, at last, that she wasn’t the one murmuring in her sleep. She finally managed to force her eyes open. Squinting into the suddenly too-bright, accusingly glaring sunlight, she had to rub her eyes. Even then, she still had to wait another couple moments for them to focus on the person lying next to her.
Oh.
The person lying next to her stretched, stretched so hard her hands pressed against the headboard and her toes reached beyond the end of the bed. The shifting of the bed from her movements made Rose aware that her head ached abominably, and her stomach roiled uncomfortably. “I feel marvellous,” the other woman said and turned onto her side, opening her eyes to smile at Rose.
Then her smile, dazzling and as warming as the sun, slowly turned to a vaguely puzzled frown as she took in Rose.
“Oh,” she said, sounding mildly surprised.
*
Her name was Polly, and she made Rose coffee.
Rose sat at the small table in Polly’s little kitchenette, clutching the mug in both hands. Currently she wore a bathrobe too long for her, courtesy of her hostess, and her own underwear, because she felt odd wearing nothing at all under the borrowed robe. Her head still ached slightly, she had a funny taste in the back of her extremely dry mouth, and she had so far done an admirable job refraining from throwing up all over Polly’s lino.
Polly was currently singing in the shower.
There were three unusual things about the situation Rose currently found herself in. One: she had not had many one-night stands (in her admittedly short love life). Two: she had had even fewer one-night stands with other women. Three: she had had absolutely no one-night stands with other women hailing from the year 1966.
Travelling with the Doctor was a little more complicated than Rose had expected.
Rose heard the water turn off in the bathroom, and Polly continued singing “I’m Only Sleeping,” her voice reverberating and muffled through the intervening walls. Rose frowned. How the woman could be so bloody cheerful made no sense at all. She’d had just as much to drink as Rose had, the night before. More, probably.
Right. Last night. What had that all been about again?
Rose remembered the Doctor letting her loose in 1960s London yesterday afternoon. She’d found a dress, tie-dyed and short, in the wardrobe, and she’d left her hair down, long and straight. He had taken it into his head that he needed a replacement of the Animals’ debut album because he’d lost the original in some sort of Jettisoning Incident (about which he refused to explain, natch, but Rose had allowed this one to drop with just a roll of her eyes), and they had gone exploring.
She’d run into a group of people in the music store, and they all ended up going to a club in a basement somewhere. It was fab, they all said, the grooviest place to go, and Rose had been more than willing. The Doctor had shooed her off, saying he was too old to go dancing and that she should just call when she was ready. She’d looked back at him, once, as they trooped off, and he had waved.
There had been music, and drink, and laughing, and dancing. Lots of dancing. Rose had danced with every single person in that club, she had a feeling, judging by how sore her calves and thighs were this morning. She didn’t remember any particular faces or moments; it was a blur of hands, torsos, eyes, arms, feet, hair, legs.
She remembered Polly’s face, though. Well, obviously she did, seeing as how she’d just woken up next to it this morning. But she remembered Polly from last night, with abrupt clarity: eyelashes and cheekbones and a wide, grinning mouth framed by long, blonde hair, in a short dress and with long, long legs, chatting and laughing easily with everyone, dancing and drinking. Rose had seen her a lot last night but hadn’t had the chance to talk with her till late, as the night wore down and the cool, chill morning beckoned.
“I’m new in town,” Rose had found herself explaining.
“Oh, really,” Polly had said, eyebrows rising in amusement.
“Okay, I’ve just got back,” Rose had retorted with an easy grin. “And I’ve got nowhere to stay tonight-I couldn’t possibly call my friend now-and I was wondering…”
It had been so easy after that, Rose recalled as she set her coffee mug back on the table. Polly was out of the bathroom, back in her bedroom it seemed, judging by where “I’m Into Something Good” was now emanating from. Rose could feel her skin flushing, as more bits and pieces of last night came back.
The early morning-twilight? Is there a word for that brief time before sunrise, when the world is strangely silent and not quite light?-was cool, but Rose had felt warm, pressed up next to Polly in the back of the taxi. Polly had paid, and then they had run up the steps to her flat, holding hands. Rose practically had to sprint to keep up with Polly’s longer legs.
Rose’s fingers went to her lips, sitting at the kitchen table, as she remembered the night before. Skin, skin; Polly’s skin was so soft, soft and hot, and her eyelashes had tickled over Rose’s cheekbone, stomach. None of Rose’s boyfriends had had such soft skin; they always had scratches, scrapes, calluses, nicks and scars. Polly’s eyes were brilliantly blue, her mouth hot and inviting and curving up in a wicked grin, her hair almost as soft as her skin, and she had extremely clever fingers.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Rose shuddered, lightly.
Lips, skin, bones, and heat; so much heat. Rose felt hot just thinking about it, the snatches and glimpses of feather-soft touches she could remember, and wearing this bathrobe was becoming unbearable.
“Hullo!” Polly called out gaily as she tripped into the tiny kitchenette. She leant down and kissed Rose fully and thoroughly on the lips, and Rose was startled at how deep and pervasive her disappointment was when Polly broke the contact. “Is the coffee alright? Would you like some tea instead?”
“No, no, this is great,” Rose smiled weakly. “Thanks for the aspirins too; the headache’s almost gone.”
Polly smiled a Cheshire-cat smile, and Rose shuddered, lightly. “Good,” Polly said. “Would you like a shower?”
“Yeah,” Rose said, standing up. “That’d be-that’d be fantastic.”
“Go ahead,” said Polly, leaning back against the sink. “Towels and things should already all be in there.”
Rose put on her dress from yesterday after the shower. It felt gritty, stretched; and she thought she might remember tearing it off last night in her hazy determination to get naked as soon as possible. She stepped back into the kitchen hesitantly, and there Polly was, curled up on one of the two chairs, drinking out of Rose’s cup, reading a magazine, and looking as pristine and beautiful and soft as she had last night.
“I-I should go,” Rose said. “My friend…”
“Yes, alright,” Polly said, laying aside the magazine. “Shall I see you at the club tonight?”
“Um.” Rose blinked. “Probably not. I’m just in London for a couple days…you know how it is…”
“Oh yes,” Polly nodded and stood up, walking Rose to the door. “I had a lovely time last night,” she said, leaning into Rose confidingly with an easy, teasing smile. “I do remember that much at least.” She lightly stroked the curve of Rose’s jawline, ending with a tap of her fingernail against Rose’s lips, and Rose blinked again, remembering how Polly had made that exact same move last night, thoughtfully, as she had held Rose pressed against her front door and said, “I hope you’re not too tired yet…”
“So did I,” Rose said firmly and leant up to give Polly the best possible good-bye snog she could manage.
Polly grinned, Cheshire-cat smile, and opened the door. “Do call again the next time you’re in London,” she said with a wicked glint in her brilliant blue eyes. She tossed her hair, winked, and closed the door.
Rose turned away and wandered out of the building, vaguely thinking she ought to give the Doctor a call. At the moment, though, she was far more interested in remembering as much as possible from the night before.
She tapped her lips with her finger and grinned softly to herself.
“Fab,” Rose said.