(no subject)
It’s been a week since Rose and this Doctor started on the beach.
He has been afraid to kiss her again since that first time, but has surprised himself by being relatively bold in other areas. When she clung to him that first night after he asked if he should go, he found that his fingers fit the curve of her hips just as well as they did before, but that the warmth of those curves is easier absorbed through human hands. The second night they (platonically) shared a bed he strained his less impressive human nose and confirmed his suspicion that she had changed shampoo-cherries now, instead of strawberries. On their fourth night together he finally dared to loop an arm over her stomach and discovered that Rose Tyler’s sleeping, subconscious mind loves a good cuddle. On the fifth night he discovered that her wide awake mind was also open to the idea. Over breakfast on day six he made her laugh-an incredible, careless, full laugh that creased the corners of her mouth and caused her to spill a bit of tea down her front-and when she looked at him through watery eyes he was immensely relieved to find that her familiar, desperately missed smile made his single heart feel just as warm and erratic as it had his two hearts.
Today, the seventh day since Norway, he has finally decided that he can’t continue to borrow Pete’s clothes, and they are out shopping together. At least, they are supposed to be shopping; for the last several minutes they have been otherwise engaged.
Just a moment ago, for example, he felt Rose’s fingers push through his hair with more confidence, more insistence than they had before. It felt like an acknowledge that this hair, though in many ways the same, was much more hers than it had ever been. He happily leaned into her hands, closed his eyes, nuzzled a bit at her palm.
Sometime during her exploration of his messy locks he unclasped his own hands and now extends them, cautious, trembling, until his fingertips brush her knees. She makes a low humming noise at the contact, and he takes it as an invitation. Her legs are smooth and her skin is so soft, even in the pits of her knees, and he wonders if she uses lotion but thinks it more likely that inexplicably soft skin is just part of her beautiful Rose-ness.
And now he is pressing his palms more firmly into her legs, and if this goes badly he will swear later that it is subconscious, but she is stepping between his knees and there’s that hum again and he doesn’t think the feeble excuse will be necessary. Her right hand traces the line of his sideburn and stops to cup his cheek, and he looks up at her, and he dimly remembers that he has been anxious about this moment for a week, but now the moment is here and her face says she has been waiting, too, and he could kick himself for putting it off so long.
Her lips are soft like her legs and insistent like her fingers. Her hair falls forward to frame his face and it tickles a bit but he doesn’t really notice. She stumbles forward onto his lap and joins her hands at the back of his neck and he wraps her up in his arms like it’s natural, like she’s always been his, like always has never been enough. His desperation is in his lips and in his tongue, and she’s making a noise in the back of her throat, and this is all he’s ever wanted and so much more than he has ever been allowed to want.
It is a long time before she pulls gently away looking breathless and flushed and just the right amount of wild. He guesses he must look the same because then she laughs, and leans back in his arms, and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face if he wanted to, and he so loves her.