Ten Lessons the Doctor Learned From Sex and One He Didn't [Ten/Rose]
Okay, it's early for Easter. But I have to write another fic for someone who sadly had to pull out, so I'm posting now. Bite me :P
Ten Lessons the Doctor Learned From Sex and One He Didn't
Aka Much Ado About Shagging (and Other Things the Doctor Doesn't Really Do)
by Camilla Sandman
Summary: He's always known sex is more than the act itself. [Ten/Rose]
Disclaimer: BBC's characters. I merely write fanfic.
Rating: Mature. Cursing and sexing. Oh dear.
Author's Note: Written for rainyd's request in my Easter Egg Fix Exchange. Much, much thanks goes to lotus79 for help, suggestions and general willingness to endure my trying out paragraphs on her. Thanks also to wendymr for beta-ing and smacking me with commas.
Set sometime after TCI, obviously, but not really made explicit when. Some classic Who references within.
II
Of course, the Doctor doesn't really like to brag but by golly, he knows a lot, and shows it too.
He knows how to make people think him a fool right until he makes fools of them. He knows how to smile to look friendly, and he knows how to smile to look enraged. He knows how to pilot a TARDIS, and he knows how not to as well. (For safety reasons, he makes sure he learns the latter lesson every regeneration at least. At least, that's the excuse he nearly believes.) He knows how to be a Time Lord, and makes sure he rebels against it as much he can.
He has always had a lot of knowledge he never dreamt of using. How to collapse a star. How to use time itself as death, as time inevitably is. How to act a God. How to commit genocide. How to do nothing at all.
Never dreamt of using until he inevitably did, and then they were nightmares of memories. They still are, but he doesn't sleep much any more.
He knows how humans sleep.
He knows how humans shag. He knows how Daleks don't. He knows how the Veraks do and don't at the same time. He knows how the Berghalt prefer their partners, and how the Ulh do it without one. He knows how the Caula like it, and how the Grn most certainly don't. Simple facts of biology, really. He even has a very reasonable theory about how Rose would like it, based on careful analysis and statistical calculations. Of course, it hasn't been tried as such, but he feels it's very reasonable still.
He has always had a lot of knowledge he never dreams of using, after all.
By golly, he knows a lot indeed and isn't afraid to show it.
He has much yet to learn, time knows.
II
Lesson One: Desire
He's always known there are rules about not getting involved.
Time Lords didn't get involved in time. Or so they had pretended not to, to better stay on their high horses (or high planets, as the case might be), claiming all cases where they did involve themselves as exceptions.
There were just a lot of exceptions.
The Doctor doesn't get involved in humans. Or so he pretends to, to better stay on his "stupid apes" bandwagon and claiming all cases where he does involve himself as exceptions.
There were just becoming a lot of exceptions.
"Rose," he sighs.
"I didn't think I was doing anything wrong!" she protests, her hair still wet and her breathing still ragged. He tries not to notice.
"Rose... To borrow thinking from your time, when a butterfly flaps its wings in China, it can cause a storm in London. What do you think happens when you knee the chief butterfly in its sensitive colour area and a storm of butterflies all flap their wings?"
"The weatherman is in trouble?" she suggests, smiling slightly.
"The weatherman is in deep trouble," he amends. "The weatherman has to go to a lot of trouble to make sure London isn't drowned and his partner in weather-spotting isn't beheaded."
"He wouldn't behead me," she protests.
"Rose, because of you it isn't likely he'll ever spawn little Grn'Knag-Relixes. What were you thinking, kneeing the ruler of a planet?" he asks, exasperated.
"I was thinking I didn't like the way he touched me," she says quietly, and he wishes she hadn't.
He doesn't mind others touching Rose when she wants it. He can delight in her delight and pride himself on how tolerating and unpossessive and great he is, truly. He can practice the non-jealousy until he gets it right (which is any day now, he's sure). He can pretend he's not pretending it's his touches that leave that faint warmth in her skin. He can be safe.
He minds a great deal all the other times, and now, a kneeing seems inadequate. There should be a stricter punishment than that. There should be, and he can deliver it.
He really wishes she hadn't said that to him.
"Doctor..."
"I'm sorry," he says abruptly.
"Not your fault."
Always is, he doesn't say. Instead, he just smiles at her.
"You stink. Shower, Rose Tyler, and new clothes and new hair, possibly, if you can find a nice wig. I think I have Sir Edward Marshall-Hall's still. You know, that man would've been a rubbish barrister if I hadn't cured his lisp and taught him zone defence."
She whacks him lightly in the shoulder as she walks past, and he makes a good show of rubbing the sore spot until she's walked out of sight.
Right. A Rose Tyler shower and redressing should give him just enough time, plus a tea break if required. He doesn't think it will be, but there are traditions to consider and all.
When he wishes to be, he is the biggest butterfly of all, and Grn'Knag-Relix is going to find himself unemployed in the planet-rule line of work. A Time Lord wouldn't normally get involved, but there are exceptions.
He walks into the rain and tries not to think of Rose in the shower, water washing away unwelcome touches when his hands desire to stroke it away instead.
Desires makes for a lot of exceptions, he learns.
II
Lesson Two: Foreplay
He's always known sex is more than the act itself. It's everything leading up to it, every awkward minute thinking about it, it's everything after, every awkward minute trying to pretend it never happened. Foreplay and afterplay. Sex can be a simple animal urge and a very, very complicated emotional mess and both at the same time and, really, it's all very silly. Time Lords were always too busy screwing their own important selves to screw anyone else, but, of course, he was always a rebel.
Oh yes, he knows sex is more than the slotting of tab A into tab B, and he knows it well. He's just not very good at considering that others might know it as well.
Rose keeps looking at him. Not just a friendly glance here and there, no. A gaze so possessive he might as well get 'Property of Rose' tattooed across his back, that's what she's giving him. She has for some time, he realises, and he's not confident he hasn't returned it.
It is very hard not to look at Rose like she's Rose, after all. Rose, who saved his life. Rose, who nearly died for him, and then he nearly died for her. Rose, who smiles like life and talks like innocence. Rose, who is smelling like skin and looking like a walking invitation to press her against the TARDIS console and be very unTime Lord-y.
He's not sure he's quite communicated that he is otherwise engaged. Because he is. Yep. Decidedly is. There's saving the Universe and rescuing silly humans and averting time implosions and avoiding paradoxes and repairing the TARDIS and repairing the tea pot and busy, busy, busy, that's him. Always moving on, never lingering.
The problem is that his gaze does linger and Rose is smiling at him and everything complicated feels so simple. It feels like sex, and Rose knows it.
It's possible to have foreplay without even touching each other, he learns.
II
Lesson Three: Snogging
He's always been proud of the TARDIS console. Sure, it's not the lastest model, and sure, it misbehaves and confuses everyone else, but so does he. It feels good to be two of a pair, and it's so unmistakeably his in every little replaced part he's borrowed from somewhere. His beautiful ship, the console its brain and heart and convenient blame when something goes wrong.
He's always been proud of it and has always thought it brilliant just as it is, but, right now, he wishes somewhat he hadn't stuck so many hard knobs on it.
"Ow," he mutters against Rose's lips, and she makes a sound at the back of her throat that might be sympathy and might be just laughing at him. Whichever it is, she doesn't let go, her body pressed softly against his front and the TARDIS console pressed hard into his back.
Maybe he'll grow to like it, he thinks optimistically, as he's very fast grown to like the way she parts her lips a little even before he applies pressure on them. Always so eager, Rose. Always capable of surprising him.
Like the snog-ambush she unleashed upon him just minutes ago. At least it seemed like one to him. He certainly wasn't expecting it. In fact, he's pretty sure he looked a little stupid after she laid the first one on him, a hard kiss that was more a challenge than a caress. She hadn't quite managed to hide her amusement, or perhaps she had just hoped her amusement would hide her nervousness.
Always brave, his Rose, daring a second kiss too, one that hasn't quite ended yet. Of course, he can stop at any moment, should stop, has every reason to. Has a list of reason, carefully compiled from the moment he'd met her. He hasn't forgotten, not even the regeneration has changed that. He remembers.
He just doesn't feel them anymore.
He does feel Rose's tongue. Very vividly, in fact. He feels her hands too, one firmly at his neck, one just where his shirt has mysteriously come free of his trousers and there's a little exposed skin. A little exposed skin can make for a lot of distraction for someone rehashing a logical argument against companion snogging in his head.
He hopes that particular hand of hers doesn't have any plans on dipping even lower or he's likely to make very stupid observations on the sensitivity of knobs.
Of course, his hands aren't exactly innocent either, one resting casually on her hip, one not so casually figuring out that human bras really are more complicated to open than the simpleness of the human mind should dictate.
Then again, maybe Time Lords are just really lousy at problem-solving while making out. They didn't test them in that particular skill at University, after all, unless it was in a class he skipped. He skipped a lot, and oh oh oh, Rose really, really shouldn't...
"University!" he gasps, and Rose stops the assault of tongue on his collarbone and tips her head up to look confused at him. Her hands don't let go of his waistband, though, and he's trying very, very, very hard not to picture everything he's picturing right now.
"University?"
"Yes," he breathes. "Um, have you ever considered getting a University degree? Your mum would be impressed, might even stop hiding the biscuits from me when we visit. I really love those biscuits."
She's looking at him like he's lost his mind when he's really just lost his logic. "What are you babbling on about?"
"Your mum is nice, really," he goes on, trying to remember what he was getting at. "It would shut her up for a while, you accomplishing something, and she's even nicer when shutting up. Quite delightful, actually."
"Doctor," Rose says firmly, shifting her weight slightly and reminding him she's nearly got him impaled on the TARDIS console. "Could we maybe not discuss my mother when you got your hand up my top?"
Oh, right.
"Of course. Mind you, the Caula consider complimenting you on their parents to be sexually propositioning them. That was an interesting thing to learn," he says, and tries to figure out why parts of his brain are shouting at him to shut up. "Education is very beneficial. Very good. Many things are not good. Many things are bad."
Rose still stares at him. A moment later, he can almost see her brain come to a very hurtful conclusion. "Oh, right. You don't want to do this, do you?"
"Rose..."
"No, no," she says hastily, stepping away and leaving his body to feel bereft of the touch of hers. "I understand. Bad idea, right? Bad idea and you're trying to think of a way to tell me."
He really hopes she hasn't learned to read his face yet.
"Yeah," she mutters, and crushes his hope. "Got it. For the record though, bringing up someone's mum is not the best way to do it."
She turns away, her back very straight as she walks, and he wonders why he feels like a bastard.
It is a bad idea. It is. Really, it is. Bad, bad, bad like the bad lead singer of the McBaddy Bad Boys band from Badshire. Bad, silly and inconvenient. It is against all logic, and every other Time Lord would surely agree with him on that.
Oh, fuck that.
"Rose?"
She turns, her lips still swollen, her eyes a little dark and her clothes bearing the signs of manhandling. All his doing, and he realises he's already lost.
"Bad idea, right?" he calls, and grins. It takes her a moment to get everything he didn't say, and then she grins too.
"Bad idea," she agrees, and when he walks towards her, her eyes are shining.
He might as well kiss her again, so he does.
Once you've started, it's hard to stop, he learns.
II
Lesson Four: The Human Body
He's always been an explorer. Time, space, paradoxes and alternate timelines, he's there, planting the flag for the Universe, claiming it for life, mapping it for knowledge. He doesn't think of it as bravery, just the only way he knows how to live.
He's always been an explorer, and, really, he owes to to prosperity to not leave a spot undiscovered.
Right?
"Oh... Yes," Rose gasps, arching into his touch as he cups a breast. It's a curious sensation, nipple against palm. Both sensitive, both skin, yet so different in appearance and feel.
Variations on the same theme, he thinks, and looks at Rose. She's fidgeting a little under him, but that might be due to her general state of undress and his state of dress still. Not for the lack of trying on her part, but he's always been a resilient bugger and all around sneaky fellow.
She does look beautiful, he observes. Not perfect, no. A little uneven colour of her skin here and a little scar there, and sometimes she screws her face up to look really pouty and thinks it charming. He doesn't much think so, but she's charmed him in so many other ways it hardly matters.
Humans strive for perfection and time just strives for tomorrow, and neither really gets there. And somewhere in-between is him, striving for truth, justice and the...
Hang on, that's Superman. Then again, he feels pretty super himself right about now, his tongue exploring Rose's navel and Rose exploring how to clutch his hair.
He should maybe ask her to go easy before he does turn bald, but, not being ginger, he's not sure he cares at the moment. Might even be a good look on him. Might even be a good look on her, and her hair is a right mess now, spread across the sheet, a golden frame for her flaming face.
"How do you feel about bald?" he asks, and she bucks against his hand as he moves it up her thigh.
"Bald?" she echoes, slightly more breathlessly. "You're not changing bodies again, are you?"
"Wouldn't you like me to?"
She shakes her head wildly, her lips parted in a long, shuddering breath.
"Not even back to what I was?"
He can't help the question. It slips out of him before he can think, past hurt coming back to haunt. He can see her try to gather her thoughts, and she grabs hold of his tie, bringing his face up to level with hers.
"No," she says, and he knows it's a truth from how she doesn't even try to look truthful. "If you kiss me right now, I might just get used to it."
He does.
Humans get so very attached to bodies, he learns.
II
Lesson Five: Orgasm
He's always been very fond of words. Oh yes. He's never liked guns, but words are far more efficient weapons when put correctly together. Words enslave, words liberate, words bring joy, words bring sorrow, words enlightened and words deceive.
He's always been fond of words and now they're all deserting him.
"Oh," he mutters, and Rose moves slightly. "Ah."
He's almost sure Rose is giggling at him. Not that she had much eloquent to say when she was panting and he was the one on top, he would like to remind her. What goes around, comes around and and and...
"Oi," he lets out. "Cheating!"
"What?" she asks innocently, eyelids lowered. "This?"
It should be, he hasn't the breath to say. Oh, it should be. Oh fuck, it should be, oh fuckity fuck and fuck.
Shit.
Bugger.
Bollocks.
Fuuuuck.
Orgasms really bring swear words into their prime, he learns.
II
Lesson Six: Morning After
He's always known life has many price tags and one of them is regret. Make a decision, watch time fill it with regret. Even for him. Time Lords were never lording over time anymore than sheepdogs were really driving the sheep. They just yipped at time until it bent slightly their way.
Make a decision, watch Gallifrey burn and make regret your very bones. He knows it so well it still hurts, and yet he keeps on deciding.
Make a decision, sleep with Rose and wake up to... What?
He awakes to find Rose wearing his glasses. She is obviously trying to look cute with them, but failing slightly when she goes cross-eyed.
"What's this for?" he asks.
She shrugs. "Wanted to see if they worked or you were just going for a dorky look."
"The Dork... No, doesn't quite have the same ring as the Doctor. Plus, in Verakian, 'dork' means 'small, yapping bull'."
She leans over, the sheet sliding mostly off her as she settles on top at him and looks at him seriously. He tries not to let it distract him. "What's 'boyfriend' in your language?"
Uh oh.
"We don't really have that word," he says gently, easing his glasses off her before she starts squinting too much.
"Oh."
He kisses her, because she's looking so young and hopeful and Rose, and he's feeling old and hopeful and the Doctor. He remembers nights without hope, but ,when she's there, they feel like a long time and another body ago.
"We don't have the 'boyfriend' word, but there's plenty of alternatives," he says softly, and tries not to make it a promise. She beams at him still.
He doesn't tell her what the alternatives are, and she doesn't ask, and he likes it that way.
Morning afters aren't always for regrets, he learns.
II
Lesson Seven: Expectations
He's always moved on. Moved on from Gallifrey, moved on from Time Lord laws, moved on from praise, moved on from death, moved on from all the expectations staying behind would chain him in.
He knows in the back of his mind that the Daleks named him aptly for all the wrong reasons. Coward. He fights. He never stays for the peace.
He brings companions, and they can bring a sort of peace, but it's always moving with him, coming on his terms, living in his world. A one-way street, and he directs the traffic.
Except it's somehow become a two-way highway and he doesn't even mind. He remembers he's supposed to. He remembers why he's supposed to. He still doesn't feel like it.
"Jackie!" he says cheerfully, and she smiles right back at him, as expected. She likes him more now and he wonders vaguely why. He was always quite nice, wasn't he? He did apologise for the little hiccup of twelve months instead of twelve hours and he did send Rose back to her.
Granted, Rose screwed all that up by returning to him, but that was hardly his fault.
"Your mum makes the most interesting tea this side of the 21st century," he says to Rose, who's looking a little annoyed seated next to him. He wonders why. She used to get annoyed with him when he wasn't being polite to her mum and now she seems to get annoyed that he is.
Humans. Can't do time travel without bumping into them, can't quite make sense of them even with all of time at disposal.
He chats with Jackie, watches Rose sip her tea with a little more interest than he should (after all, it is hard to tell the memory of her licking tea off him to behave itself), listens to the cricket scores on the radio with nostalgic interest and feels a little bit human. He wouldn't want to live it, he thinks, but he can envy it a little from the safety of his Gallifreyan skin.
"I should get a picture of you two for the family album," Jackie says, and he nearly spits out the tea.
The one-way street has certain advantages, he remembers. It keeps HGVs from coming barging at him.
He's still trying to clear his vision a little later as he and Rose head back to the TARDIS. "Your mum is a firm believer in the blinding flash theory of photography, I gather."
"Yes. 'Red-eyes Tyler', that was my documented childhood," Rose says lightly, but there is something definitely not light lingering in her tone.
He gives her a look. "Not sure that would quite go with your love of pink. Bit of a clash, don't you think?"
"I wasn't gonna take my top off for a family picture."
"No? I would've done it too, out of solidarity. We could start a new trend."
"Topless Tylers?"
"Topless Tyler and her amazing sidekick, the Doctor," he amends. "Be a right riot."
"Sidekick?" she echoes, and looks up at him, the sun catching something golden in her eyes. "That's what you are, then?"
"You doubting my kicking skills?" he exclaims, then considers. "Might be onto something there. Bruce Lee called me 'clumsy gentlelegs'. Probably shouldn't have tripped over my scarf right in front of him. Okay, side-dork, is that acceptable?"
"Just... Not what I expected," she mutters, and looks away.
"What were you expecting?
She mumbles something he can't quite hear, and a rather ominous thought lets itself be known in his mind.
She's not expecting him to be another Mickey, is she? Another Mickey, just with adventures and a ship that travels through time?
He's never going to be that. Not for her. He couldn't stop being the Doctor for Gallifrey. He is what he is, modified a little by each regeneration (what was he thinking with the celery?), and just smiling at Jackie Tyler isn't going to change that.
"Does it matter?" he asks, dragging his hand out of his pocket to find Rose's. She looks at him a little, the smile not quite touching her eyes.
"No," she lies, and he knows it is one. She'll get over it, he expects. She will.
You can move on and expectations move on right along with you, he learns.
II
Lesson Eight: Variety
He's always been good at maths, and sex is a fairly simple equation. Male/female meets male/female, shagging occurs. (One hormonal young human, one lonely a-little-older Time Lord, let stir for whatever time needed.) Occasionally, there are higher numbers involved, but it still tends to add up. (If needed, mix in a little Jack for spicier taste.) Sex is a simple, simple principle. Mathswise.
He's fast learning there's a heck of a lot of variations on how you put up those numbers, still.
There's the angry - Rose getting mad at him for risking his life in some fool-hardy scheme (as if that isn't what he always does!), him getting mad at her for risking her life in some fool-hardy scheme to get his life out of danger (as if that isn't what she always does!), anger to passion to hardly much foreplay at all, and her clinging to him as he has her against a wall and tries to remember if the TARDIS has always had leopard-spotted panelling.
There's the tender - kissing the skin of her neck normally hidden by hair, feeling her wake up to his touches and the tiny hairs on her arm rise as he runs his hands across, listening to her sighs as she presses back against him, watching her eyes close as her body shudders and knowing it's he who brought her there.
There's the awkward - noses bumping, fingers fumbling with buttons, hair getting stuck in zippers, the angles not quite right and the labouring to fix it not seeming to help and the silence afterwards that only dies when he can't help but laugh and she laughs with him until they're all out of breath.
There's the possessive - hers and his, hers tying him to the headboard with his own tie, straddling him and egging him on to something that would be madness for a human and is mild torture for a Time Lord, all the while marking him as hers, hers, hers and his, trapping her underneath his body, never taking his eyes off her and watching her face as he sinks into her and knows she's his, his, his.
There's the inconvenient - wrong time, wrong place, not even bothering to shed clothes, trying to silence his grunts and her moans silenced by biting into his shoulder and fast, fast and hurried until it's over and they can get back to escaping not quite deadly danger.
There's the bored - a lot of energy with nothing to do, and Rose smiling until he decides he might as well, pleasant enough after all, and she giggles at his energy until she doesn't giggle at all and merely breathes with him and he is a little lost.
There's the competitive - kissing as war, touching as battles, shagging as one-upmanship until he wins, as he always does, even when he surrenders just to see victory become her, ever a little selfish.
There's the undefinable - her as her and him as him, skin to skin, the only emotion he can feel so still he doesn't know what it is, and it is just Rose and him, Rose and him, Rose and him, feeling something strangely like peace in the torrent of lust and desire and hormones.
Variations can make the most simple principles of maths seem awfully complicated, he learns.
II
Lesson Nine: Habits
He's always formed certain habits. Jelly babies, a habit regeneration kicked for him. Silliness, a habit he clings on to like a lifeline. Humans, a habit he can't quite explain except they are humans. Companions, a habit the Universe seemed to form upon him. Not shagging his companions, a very sensible habit he fails to follow on occasion.
It's no point being sensible if he can't also be the fool, he reasons.
He's very good at the fool, and Rose is learning it.
"Am I the first?" she asks over the noise of the TARDIS, the green light not quite becoming on her and he only liking her more for it.
"No, I have been asked that question before," he replies, and she whacks him slightly on the arm.
"First... You know..."
"I know?" he asks, and watches her give him a look. "Oh! Yes, I know. No."
"No?"
"No," he says brightly. "First with this body, though. It's pretty good, don't you think? Good hair."
"Excellent hair," she agrees, ruffling it slightly with her hand, as she's formed a habit of doing. He tries not to feel like a puppy.
"That all right then?"
"That I'm not first and first?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah," she says, far too sincerely. "Only... Are there gonna be people after me, then?"
Probably, he doesn't want to say. Highly likely. Almost certainly. Yes. Because the Universe doesn't change its habits and he doesn't keep his companions. That's not how it works.
"Would you be jealous?" he says instead, keeping a foolish smile that feels more like a shield.
"What do you think?" she counters, pulling his face down to a kiss that feels almost like a punishment. Maybe he deserves it a little. Maybe he doesn't, and he gets it anyway. It wouldn't be the first time. The Universe's primary habit, sticking it to the Doctor. His primary habit, getting out of it.
"I think we're here," he manages to get out, the TARDIS jerking to a halt and Rose losing her grip on him to get intimate with the floor. Annoyed is very becoming on her, he notes. "Um, I might've crashed us a little. Definitely Berghalt, but not quite sure when we are. No matter, we'll find out!"
"I'll find out the moment someone tries to behead me," she mutters, but takes his hand and lets him help her up anyway. "Promise me I won't ruin another good top?"
"No."
"You're not much good at all," she laughs, but she doesn't look too upset at the prospect. Perhaps she's already imagining a shared shower and thinking the top a worthy sacrifice.
"No," he says, and knows she'll learn. "No, I'm not."
Later, he saves her life against all time and sensibility, and he'll make a habit out of that in a second if he has to. Rose is going to live. He's decided it a long time ago, and he's not going to change his mind just because logic, facts and the Universe tell him otherwise.
It's all too easy to make another person the habit you never want to break out of, he learns.
II
Lesson Ten: Love
He's always known love. He loves the Universe, or near enough, enough to let Gallifrey burn for it. He loves his TARDIS, or near enough, enough not to have traded her for an upgrade. He's loved his companions, or near enough, enough to be willing to die for them.
He loves Rose, or near enough, enough to give a little of what she wants. A sort of romance, not a fairytale kind, but not completely dysfunctional either. He keeps a little of what he wants, too. A life, not a Mickey kind, but not completely bereft of moments of domestic either. It feels like a balancing act, and when he falls, there's always hurt. Hers, his, theirs.
But she still sleeps like innocence, and he watches her, not quite sure if he's relieved or afraid.
Every regeneration, he has something new to learn and relearn. He remembers, yes, but he doesn't always feel the lessons.
Love can drive them to die for you, he learned from Jack.
Love isn't always enough to make them come with you, he learned from Grace.
Love can make even humans feel like family, he learned from Ace.
Love is ever hope of change, he learned from Mel.
Love and lust don't always draw clear lines between them, he learned from Peri.
Love doesn't always need a good first impression, he learned from Turlough.
Love isn't enough to make them stay, he learned from Nyssa and Tegan.
Love doesn't stop them from dying, he learned from Adric.
Love wasn't absent on Gallifrey after all, he learned from Romana.
Love can be as fierce as hatred, he learned from Leela.
Love often comes with 'insufficient data' to make sense, he learned from K-9.
Love isn't always enough to keep him from leaving, he learned from Sarah Jane.
Love can make them leave, he learned again from Jo.
Love doesn't always change when everything else does, he learned from the Brigadier.
Love doesn't always mean they won't forget him, he learned from Jamie and Zoe.
Love doesn't need to be made explicit, he learned from Ian and Barbara.
Love can make them leave, he learned from Susan.
He remembers. He still can't help himself, and Rose's shoulder feels warm to rest against, even if he doesn't need to sleep. It's nice to know he can, still.
He wonders what Rose will teach him in the end. Rose, who he didn't need to sleep with, but he's enough of a rebel to break his own rules too sometimes. Rose, who will keep trying to get her way and not quite getting there. Rose, who is brave most of the time, stupid some of the time, silly enough of the time and his all of the time. Rose, who he loves, or near enough.
Love has a whole different set of lessons to teach than sex has, he learns.
II
Lesson Eleven: Endings
He's always known there are supposed to be endings. Life goes to death, day goes to night, children go to grandparents, planets go to rocks and dust, suns go to ashes and Doctors go to silence. Everything is supposed to end, and he fights it. It's ever a losing battle, but, as long as there is no surrender, it remains a battle.
That is hope, or near enough.
It's easy to forget some prefer the peace of a truce.
"Do you ever get tired?" Rose asks him, an alien sun finding the dark in her eyes as she pauses at the doors to the TARDIS. Another adventure, another return to what is home, or near enough.
"Of stepping out into the glorious unknown, to boldly go where no Doctor and Rose have gone before?" he declares enthusiastically, before a troubling thought settles (one that isn't that he better not rip off Star Trek). "Why, are you?"
"Not that part," she says reassuringly, the wind nearly tearing Sir Edward Marshall-Hall's wig off her. "Watching people die who shouldn't have to. It doesn't seem fair."
"Who's to say what's fair?" he counters. "Many that live deserve death. Some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Fr- hang on, that's Lord of the Rings."
She laughs a little, and steadies herself against the TARDIS wall as he leans his forehead against hers.
"They don't always die," he whispers. "It's not always an unhappy ending."
"I know," she whispers back, drawing a thumb down his sideburns. "It's not always a happy one either."
She's not going to sleep like innocence tonight, he knows, and she clings to him a little desperately when he kisses her. Human Rose, so very human as he sinks her down on the grass in the setting sun of Ulh.
Sunrise to sunsets, life to death. Everything has a lifespan, and he can't shag her forever. Time doesn't work that way. She'll leave him sooner or later, because she's had enough, because she finds someone more willing to be what she wants, because she dies, because he drives her away, or whatever other reason the Universe might find. But, as long as he can lace his fingers in hers, he can think he's got a pretty good defence lined up for the fight.
That is hope, or near enough.
"Doctor," she whispers, dragging him by his tie to come face to face with her. "You're getting grass and dirt all over my top. It'll be the end of it."
"I'll get you a new one."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Better shag me, then."
"Yes."
He doesn't even notice that the sun's vanished beyond the horizon when he sinks into her, noting instead how Sir Edward Marshall-Hall's wig becomes her, how grass becomes her, how he becomes her and life becomes them both.
Everything ends, he doesn't really learn. He refuses to.
He's never going to learn the most important lesson of all, time knows.
FIN
Ten Lessons the Doctor Learned From Sex and One He Didn't
Aka Much Ado About Shagging (and Other Things the Doctor Doesn't Really Do)
by Camilla Sandman
Summary: He's always known sex is more than the act itself. [Ten/Rose]
Disclaimer: BBC's characters. I merely write fanfic.
Rating: Mature. Cursing and sexing. Oh dear.
Author's Note: Written for rainyd's request in my Easter Egg Fix Exchange. Much, much thanks goes to lotus79 for help, suggestions and general willingness to endure my trying out paragraphs on her. Thanks also to wendymr for beta-ing and smacking me with commas.
Set sometime after TCI, obviously, but not really made explicit when. Some classic Who references within.
II
Of course, the Doctor doesn't really like to brag but by golly, he knows a lot, and shows it too.
He knows how to make people think him a fool right until he makes fools of them. He knows how to smile to look friendly, and he knows how to smile to look enraged. He knows how to pilot a TARDIS, and he knows how not to as well. (For safety reasons, he makes sure he learns the latter lesson every regeneration at least. At least, that's the excuse he nearly believes.) He knows how to be a Time Lord, and makes sure he rebels against it as much he can.
He has always had a lot of knowledge he never dreamt of using. How to collapse a star. How to use time itself as death, as time inevitably is. How to act a God. How to commit genocide. How to do nothing at all.
Never dreamt of using until he inevitably did, and then they were nightmares of memories. They still are, but he doesn't sleep much any more.
He knows how humans sleep.
He knows how humans shag. He knows how Daleks don't. He knows how the Veraks do and don't at the same time. He knows how the Berghalt prefer their partners, and how the Ulh do it without one. He knows how the Caula like it, and how the Grn most certainly don't. Simple facts of biology, really. He even has a very reasonable theory about how Rose would like it, based on careful analysis and statistical calculations. Of course, it hasn't been tried as such, but he feels it's very reasonable still.
He has always had a lot of knowledge he never dreams of using, after all.
By golly, he knows a lot indeed and isn't afraid to show it.
He has much yet to learn, time knows.
II
Lesson One: Desire
He's always known there are rules about not getting involved.
Time Lords didn't get involved in time. Or so they had pretended not to, to better stay on their high horses (or high planets, as the case might be), claiming all cases where they did involve themselves as exceptions.
There were just a lot of exceptions.
The Doctor doesn't get involved in humans. Or so he pretends to, to better stay on his "stupid apes" bandwagon and claiming all cases where he does involve himself as exceptions.
There were just becoming a lot of exceptions.
"Rose," he sighs.
"I didn't think I was doing anything wrong!" she protests, her hair still wet and her breathing still ragged. He tries not to notice.
"Rose... To borrow thinking from your time, when a butterfly flaps its wings in China, it can cause a storm in London. What do you think happens when you knee the chief butterfly in its sensitive colour area and a storm of butterflies all flap their wings?"
"The weatherman is in trouble?" she suggests, smiling slightly.
"The weatherman is in deep trouble," he amends. "The weatherman has to go to a lot of trouble to make sure London isn't drowned and his partner in weather-spotting isn't beheaded."
"He wouldn't behead me," she protests.
"Rose, because of you it isn't likely he'll ever spawn little Grn'Knag-Relixes. What were you thinking, kneeing the ruler of a planet?" he asks, exasperated.
"I was thinking I didn't like the way he touched me," she says quietly, and he wishes she hadn't.
He doesn't mind others touching Rose when she wants it. He can delight in her delight and pride himself on how tolerating and unpossessive and great he is, truly. He can practice the non-jealousy until he gets it right (which is any day now, he's sure). He can pretend he's not pretending it's his touches that leave that faint warmth in her skin. He can be safe.
He minds a great deal all the other times, and now, a kneeing seems inadequate. There should be a stricter punishment than that. There should be, and he can deliver it.
He really wishes she hadn't said that to him.
"Doctor..."
"I'm sorry," he says abruptly.
"Not your fault."
Always is, he doesn't say. Instead, he just smiles at her.
"You stink. Shower, Rose Tyler, and new clothes and new hair, possibly, if you can find a nice wig. I think I have Sir Edward Marshall-Hall's still. You know, that man would've been a rubbish barrister if I hadn't cured his lisp and taught him zone defence."
She whacks him lightly in the shoulder as she walks past, and he makes a good show of rubbing the sore spot until she's walked out of sight.
Right. A Rose Tyler shower and redressing should give him just enough time, plus a tea break if required. He doesn't think it will be, but there are traditions to consider and all.
When he wishes to be, he is the biggest butterfly of all, and Grn'Knag-Relix is going to find himself unemployed in the planet-rule line of work. A Time Lord wouldn't normally get involved, but there are exceptions.
He walks into the rain and tries not to think of Rose in the shower, water washing away unwelcome touches when his hands desire to stroke it away instead.
Desires makes for a lot of exceptions, he learns.
II
Lesson Two: Foreplay
He's always known sex is more than the act itself. It's everything leading up to it, every awkward minute thinking about it, it's everything after, every awkward minute trying to pretend it never happened. Foreplay and afterplay. Sex can be a simple animal urge and a very, very complicated emotional mess and both at the same time and, really, it's all very silly. Time Lords were always too busy screwing their own important selves to screw anyone else, but, of course, he was always a rebel.
Oh yes, he knows sex is more than the slotting of tab A into tab B, and he knows it well. He's just not very good at considering that others might know it as well.
Rose keeps looking at him. Not just a friendly glance here and there, no. A gaze so possessive he might as well get 'Property of Rose' tattooed across his back, that's what she's giving him. She has for some time, he realises, and he's not confident he hasn't returned it.
It is very hard not to look at Rose like she's Rose, after all. Rose, who saved his life. Rose, who nearly died for him, and then he nearly died for her. Rose, who smiles like life and talks like innocence. Rose, who is smelling like skin and looking like a walking invitation to press her against the TARDIS console and be very unTime Lord-y.
He's not sure he's quite communicated that he is otherwise engaged. Because he is. Yep. Decidedly is. There's saving the Universe and rescuing silly humans and averting time implosions and avoiding paradoxes and repairing the TARDIS and repairing the tea pot and busy, busy, busy, that's him. Always moving on, never lingering.
The problem is that his gaze does linger and Rose is smiling at him and everything complicated feels so simple. It feels like sex, and Rose knows it.
It's possible to have foreplay without even touching each other, he learns.
II
Lesson Three: Snogging
He's always been proud of the TARDIS console. Sure, it's not the lastest model, and sure, it misbehaves and confuses everyone else, but so does he. It feels good to be two of a pair, and it's so unmistakeably his in every little replaced part he's borrowed from somewhere. His beautiful ship, the console its brain and heart and convenient blame when something goes wrong.
He's always been proud of it and has always thought it brilliant just as it is, but, right now, he wishes somewhat he hadn't stuck so many hard knobs on it.
"Ow," he mutters against Rose's lips, and she makes a sound at the back of her throat that might be sympathy and might be just laughing at him. Whichever it is, she doesn't let go, her body pressed softly against his front and the TARDIS console pressed hard into his back.
Maybe he'll grow to like it, he thinks optimistically, as he's very fast grown to like the way she parts her lips a little even before he applies pressure on them. Always so eager, Rose. Always capable of surprising him.
Like the snog-ambush she unleashed upon him just minutes ago. At least it seemed like one to him. He certainly wasn't expecting it. In fact, he's pretty sure he looked a little stupid after she laid the first one on him, a hard kiss that was more a challenge than a caress. She hadn't quite managed to hide her amusement, or perhaps she had just hoped her amusement would hide her nervousness.
Always brave, his Rose, daring a second kiss too, one that hasn't quite ended yet. Of course, he can stop at any moment, should stop, has every reason to. Has a list of reason, carefully compiled from the moment he'd met her. He hasn't forgotten, not even the regeneration has changed that. He remembers.
He just doesn't feel them anymore.
He does feel Rose's tongue. Very vividly, in fact. He feels her hands too, one firmly at his neck, one just where his shirt has mysteriously come free of his trousers and there's a little exposed skin. A little exposed skin can make for a lot of distraction for someone rehashing a logical argument against companion snogging in his head.
He hopes that particular hand of hers doesn't have any plans on dipping even lower or he's likely to make very stupid observations on the sensitivity of knobs.
Of course, his hands aren't exactly innocent either, one resting casually on her hip, one not so casually figuring out that human bras really are more complicated to open than the simpleness of the human mind should dictate.
Then again, maybe Time Lords are just really lousy at problem-solving while making out. They didn't test them in that particular skill at University, after all, unless it was in a class he skipped. He skipped a lot, and oh oh oh, Rose really, really shouldn't...
"University!" he gasps, and Rose stops the assault of tongue on his collarbone and tips her head up to look confused at him. Her hands don't let go of his waistband, though, and he's trying very, very, very hard not to picture everything he's picturing right now.
"University?"
"Yes," he breathes. "Um, have you ever considered getting a University degree? Your mum would be impressed, might even stop hiding the biscuits from me when we visit. I really love those biscuits."
She's looking at him like he's lost his mind when he's really just lost his logic. "What are you babbling on about?"
"Your mum is nice, really," he goes on, trying to remember what he was getting at. "It would shut her up for a while, you accomplishing something, and she's even nicer when shutting up. Quite delightful, actually."
"Doctor," Rose says firmly, shifting her weight slightly and reminding him she's nearly got him impaled on the TARDIS console. "Could we maybe not discuss my mother when you got your hand up my top?"
Oh, right.
"Of course. Mind you, the Caula consider complimenting you on their parents to be sexually propositioning them. That was an interesting thing to learn," he says, and tries to figure out why parts of his brain are shouting at him to shut up. "Education is very beneficial. Very good. Many things are not good. Many things are bad."
Rose still stares at him. A moment later, he can almost see her brain come to a very hurtful conclusion. "Oh, right. You don't want to do this, do you?"
"Rose..."
"No, no," she says hastily, stepping away and leaving his body to feel bereft of the touch of hers. "I understand. Bad idea, right? Bad idea and you're trying to think of a way to tell me."
He really hopes she hasn't learned to read his face yet.
"Yeah," she mutters, and crushes his hope. "Got it. For the record though, bringing up someone's mum is not the best way to do it."
She turns away, her back very straight as she walks, and he wonders why he feels like a bastard.
It is a bad idea. It is. Really, it is. Bad, bad, bad like the bad lead singer of the McBaddy Bad Boys band from Badshire. Bad, silly and inconvenient. It is against all logic, and every other Time Lord would surely agree with him on that.
Oh, fuck that.
"Rose?"
She turns, her lips still swollen, her eyes a little dark and her clothes bearing the signs of manhandling. All his doing, and he realises he's already lost.
"Bad idea, right?" he calls, and grins. It takes her a moment to get everything he didn't say, and then she grins too.
"Bad idea," she agrees, and when he walks towards her, her eyes are shining.
He might as well kiss her again, so he does.
Once you've started, it's hard to stop, he learns.
II
Lesson Four: The Human Body
He's always been an explorer. Time, space, paradoxes and alternate timelines, he's there, planting the flag for the Universe, claiming it for life, mapping it for knowledge. He doesn't think of it as bravery, just the only way he knows how to live.
He's always been an explorer, and, really, he owes to to prosperity to not leave a spot undiscovered.
Right?
"Oh... Yes," Rose gasps, arching into his touch as he cups a breast. It's a curious sensation, nipple against palm. Both sensitive, both skin, yet so different in appearance and feel.
Variations on the same theme, he thinks, and looks at Rose. She's fidgeting a little under him, but that might be due to her general state of undress and his state of dress still. Not for the lack of trying on her part, but he's always been a resilient bugger and all around sneaky fellow.
She does look beautiful, he observes. Not perfect, no. A little uneven colour of her skin here and a little scar there, and sometimes she screws her face up to look really pouty and thinks it charming. He doesn't much think so, but she's charmed him in so many other ways it hardly matters.
Humans strive for perfection and time just strives for tomorrow, and neither really gets there. And somewhere in-between is him, striving for truth, justice and the...
Hang on, that's Superman. Then again, he feels pretty super himself right about now, his tongue exploring Rose's navel and Rose exploring how to clutch his hair.
He should maybe ask her to go easy before he does turn bald, but, not being ginger, he's not sure he cares at the moment. Might even be a good look on him. Might even be a good look on her, and her hair is a right mess now, spread across the sheet, a golden frame for her flaming face.
"How do you feel about bald?" he asks, and she bucks against his hand as he moves it up her thigh.
"Bald?" she echoes, slightly more breathlessly. "You're not changing bodies again, are you?"
"Wouldn't you like me to?"
She shakes her head wildly, her lips parted in a long, shuddering breath.
"Not even back to what I was?"
He can't help the question. It slips out of him before he can think, past hurt coming back to haunt. He can see her try to gather her thoughts, and she grabs hold of his tie, bringing his face up to level with hers.
"No," she says, and he knows it's a truth from how she doesn't even try to look truthful. "If you kiss me right now, I might just get used to it."
He does.
Humans get so very attached to bodies, he learns.
II
Lesson Five: Orgasm
He's always been very fond of words. Oh yes. He's never liked guns, but words are far more efficient weapons when put correctly together. Words enslave, words liberate, words bring joy, words bring sorrow, words enlightened and words deceive.
He's always been fond of words and now they're all deserting him.
"Oh," he mutters, and Rose moves slightly. "Ah."
He's almost sure Rose is giggling at him. Not that she had much eloquent to say when she was panting and he was the one on top, he would like to remind her. What goes around, comes around and and and...
"Oi," he lets out. "Cheating!"
"What?" she asks innocently, eyelids lowered. "This?"
It should be, he hasn't the breath to say. Oh, it should be. Oh fuck, it should be, oh fuckity fuck and fuck.
Shit.
Bugger.
Bollocks.
Fuuuuck.
Orgasms really bring swear words into their prime, he learns.
II
Lesson Six: Morning After
He's always known life has many price tags and one of them is regret. Make a decision, watch time fill it with regret. Even for him. Time Lords were never lording over time anymore than sheepdogs were really driving the sheep. They just yipped at time until it bent slightly their way.
Make a decision, watch Gallifrey burn and make regret your very bones. He knows it so well it still hurts, and yet he keeps on deciding.
Make a decision, sleep with Rose and wake up to... What?
He awakes to find Rose wearing his glasses. She is obviously trying to look cute with them, but failing slightly when she goes cross-eyed.
"What's this for?" he asks.
She shrugs. "Wanted to see if they worked or you were just going for a dorky look."
"The Dork... No, doesn't quite have the same ring as the Doctor. Plus, in Verakian, 'dork' means 'small, yapping bull'."
She leans over, the sheet sliding mostly off her as she settles on top at him and looks at him seriously. He tries not to let it distract him. "What's 'boyfriend' in your language?"
Uh oh.
"We don't really have that word," he says gently, easing his glasses off her before she starts squinting too much.
"Oh."
He kisses her, because she's looking so young and hopeful and Rose, and he's feeling old and hopeful and the Doctor. He remembers nights without hope, but ,when she's there, they feel like a long time and another body ago.
"We don't have the 'boyfriend' word, but there's plenty of alternatives," he says softly, and tries not to make it a promise. She beams at him still.
He doesn't tell her what the alternatives are, and she doesn't ask, and he likes it that way.
Morning afters aren't always for regrets, he learns.
II
Lesson Seven: Expectations
He's always moved on. Moved on from Gallifrey, moved on from Time Lord laws, moved on from praise, moved on from death, moved on from all the expectations staying behind would chain him in.
He knows in the back of his mind that the Daleks named him aptly for all the wrong reasons. Coward. He fights. He never stays for the peace.
He brings companions, and they can bring a sort of peace, but it's always moving with him, coming on his terms, living in his world. A one-way street, and he directs the traffic.
Except it's somehow become a two-way highway and he doesn't even mind. He remembers he's supposed to. He remembers why he's supposed to. He still doesn't feel like it.
"Jackie!" he says cheerfully, and she smiles right back at him, as expected. She likes him more now and he wonders vaguely why. He was always quite nice, wasn't he? He did apologise for the little hiccup of twelve months instead of twelve hours and he did send Rose back to her.
Granted, Rose screwed all that up by returning to him, but that was hardly his fault.
"Your mum makes the most interesting tea this side of the 21st century," he says to Rose, who's looking a little annoyed seated next to him. He wonders why. She used to get annoyed with him when he wasn't being polite to her mum and now she seems to get annoyed that he is.
Humans. Can't do time travel without bumping into them, can't quite make sense of them even with all of time at disposal.
He chats with Jackie, watches Rose sip her tea with a little more interest than he should (after all, it is hard to tell the memory of her licking tea off him to behave itself), listens to the cricket scores on the radio with nostalgic interest and feels a little bit human. He wouldn't want to live it, he thinks, but he can envy it a little from the safety of his Gallifreyan skin.
"I should get a picture of you two for the family album," Jackie says, and he nearly spits out the tea.
The one-way street has certain advantages, he remembers. It keeps HGVs from coming barging at him.
He's still trying to clear his vision a little later as he and Rose head back to the TARDIS. "Your mum is a firm believer in the blinding flash theory of photography, I gather."
"Yes. 'Red-eyes Tyler', that was my documented childhood," Rose says lightly, but there is something definitely not light lingering in her tone.
He gives her a look. "Not sure that would quite go with your love of pink. Bit of a clash, don't you think?"
"I wasn't gonna take my top off for a family picture."
"No? I would've done it too, out of solidarity. We could start a new trend."
"Topless Tylers?"
"Topless Tyler and her amazing sidekick, the Doctor," he amends. "Be a right riot."
"Sidekick?" she echoes, and looks up at him, the sun catching something golden in her eyes. "That's what you are, then?"
"You doubting my kicking skills?" he exclaims, then considers. "Might be onto something there. Bruce Lee called me 'clumsy gentlelegs'. Probably shouldn't have tripped over my scarf right in front of him. Okay, side-dork, is that acceptable?"
"Just... Not what I expected," she mutters, and looks away.
"What were you expecting?
She mumbles something he can't quite hear, and a rather ominous thought lets itself be known in his mind.
She's not expecting him to be another Mickey, is she? Another Mickey, just with adventures and a ship that travels through time?
He's never going to be that. Not for her. He couldn't stop being the Doctor for Gallifrey. He is what he is, modified a little by each regeneration (what was he thinking with the celery?), and just smiling at Jackie Tyler isn't going to change that.
"Does it matter?" he asks, dragging his hand out of his pocket to find Rose's. She looks at him a little, the smile not quite touching her eyes.
"No," she lies, and he knows it is one. She'll get over it, he expects. She will.
You can move on and expectations move on right along with you, he learns.
II
Lesson Eight: Variety
He's always been good at maths, and sex is a fairly simple equation. Male/female meets male/female, shagging occurs. (One hormonal young human, one lonely a-little-older Time Lord, let stir for whatever time needed.) Occasionally, there are higher numbers involved, but it still tends to add up. (If needed, mix in a little Jack for spicier taste.) Sex is a simple, simple principle. Mathswise.
He's fast learning there's a heck of a lot of variations on how you put up those numbers, still.
There's the angry - Rose getting mad at him for risking his life in some fool-hardy scheme (as if that isn't what he always does!), him getting mad at her for risking her life in some fool-hardy scheme to get his life out of danger (as if that isn't what she always does!), anger to passion to hardly much foreplay at all, and her clinging to him as he has her against a wall and tries to remember if the TARDIS has always had leopard-spotted panelling.
There's the tender - kissing the skin of her neck normally hidden by hair, feeling her wake up to his touches and the tiny hairs on her arm rise as he runs his hands across, listening to her sighs as she presses back against him, watching her eyes close as her body shudders and knowing it's he who brought her there.
There's the awkward - noses bumping, fingers fumbling with buttons, hair getting stuck in zippers, the angles not quite right and the labouring to fix it not seeming to help and the silence afterwards that only dies when he can't help but laugh and she laughs with him until they're all out of breath.
There's the possessive - hers and his, hers tying him to the headboard with his own tie, straddling him and egging him on to something that would be madness for a human and is mild torture for a Time Lord, all the while marking him as hers, hers, hers and his, trapping her underneath his body, never taking his eyes off her and watching her face as he sinks into her and knows she's his, his, his.
There's the inconvenient - wrong time, wrong place, not even bothering to shed clothes, trying to silence his grunts and her moans silenced by biting into his shoulder and fast, fast and hurried until it's over and they can get back to escaping not quite deadly danger.
There's the bored - a lot of energy with nothing to do, and Rose smiling until he decides he might as well, pleasant enough after all, and she giggles at his energy until she doesn't giggle at all and merely breathes with him and he is a little lost.
There's the competitive - kissing as war, touching as battles, shagging as one-upmanship until he wins, as he always does, even when he surrenders just to see victory become her, ever a little selfish.
There's the undefinable - her as her and him as him, skin to skin, the only emotion he can feel so still he doesn't know what it is, and it is just Rose and him, Rose and him, Rose and him, feeling something strangely like peace in the torrent of lust and desire and hormones.
Variations can make the most simple principles of maths seem awfully complicated, he learns.
II
Lesson Nine: Habits
He's always formed certain habits. Jelly babies, a habit regeneration kicked for him. Silliness, a habit he clings on to like a lifeline. Humans, a habit he can't quite explain except they are humans. Companions, a habit the Universe seemed to form upon him. Not shagging his companions, a very sensible habit he fails to follow on occasion.
It's no point being sensible if he can't also be the fool, he reasons.
He's very good at the fool, and Rose is learning it.
"Am I the first?" she asks over the noise of the TARDIS, the green light not quite becoming on her and he only liking her more for it.
"No, I have been asked that question before," he replies, and she whacks him slightly on the arm.
"First... You know..."
"I know?" he asks, and watches her give him a look. "Oh! Yes, I know. No."
"No?"
"No," he says brightly. "First with this body, though. It's pretty good, don't you think? Good hair."
"Excellent hair," she agrees, ruffling it slightly with her hand, as she's formed a habit of doing. He tries not to feel like a puppy.
"That all right then?"
"That I'm not first and first?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah," she says, far too sincerely. "Only... Are there gonna be people after me, then?"
Probably, he doesn't want to say. Highly likely. Almost certainly. Yes. Because the Universe doesn't change its habits and he doesn't keep his companions. That's not how it works.
"Would you be jealous?" he says instead, keeping a foolish smile that feels more like a shield.
"What do you think?" she counters, pulling his face down to a kiss that feels almost like a punishment. Maybe he deserves it a little. Maybe he doesn't, and he gets it anyway. It wouldn't be the first time. The Universe's primary habit, sticking it to the Doctor. His primary habit, getting out of it.
"I think we're here," he manages to get out, the TARDIS jerking to a halt and Rose losing her grip on him to get intimate with the floor. Annoyed is very becoming on her, he notes. "Um, I might've crashed us a little. Definitely Berghalt, but not quite sure when we are. No matter, we'll find out!"
"I'll find out the moment someone tries to behead me," she mutters, but takes his hand and lets him help her up anyway. "Promise me I won't ruin another good top?"
"No."
"You're not much good at all," she laughs, but she doesn't look too upset at the prospect. Perhaps she's already imagining a shared shower and thinking the top a worthy sacrifice.
"No," he says, and knows she'll learn. "No, I'm not."
Later, he saves her life against all time and sensibility, and he'll make a habit out of that in a second if he has to. Rose is going to live. He's decided it a long time ago, and he's not going to change his mind just because logic, facts and the Universe tell him otherwise.
It's all too easy to make another person the habit you never want to break out of, he learns.
II
Lesson Ten: Love
He's always known love. He loves the Universe, or near enough, enough to let Gallifrey burn for it. He loves his TARDIS, or near enough, enough not to have traded her for an upgrade. He's loved his companions, or near enough, enough to be willing to die for them.
He loves Rose, or near enough, enough to give a little of what she wants. A sort of romance, not a fairytale kind, but not completely dysfunctional either. He keeps a little of what he wants, too. A life, not a Mickey kind, but not completely bereft of moments of domestic either. It feels like a balancing act, and when he falls, there's always hurt. Hers, his, theirs.
But she still sleeps like innocence, and he watches her, not quite sure if he's relieved or afraid.
Every regeneration, he has something new to learn and relearn. He remembers, yes, but he doesn't always feel the lessons.
Love can drive them to die for you, he learned from Jack.
Love isn't always enough to make them come with you, he learned from Grace.
Love can make even humans feel like family, he learned from Ace.
Love is ever hope of change, he learned from Mel.
Love and lust don't always draw clear lines between them, he learned from Peri.
Love doesn't always need a good first impression, he learned from Turlough.
Love isn't enough to make them stay, he learned from Nyssa and Tegan.
Love doesn't stop them from dying, he learned from Adric.
Love wasn't absent on Gallifrey after all, he learned from Romana.
Love can be as fierce as hatred, he learned from Leela.
Love often comes with 'insufficient data' to make sense, he learned from K-9.
Love isn't always enough to keep him from leaving, he learned from Sarah Jane.
Love can make them leave, he learned again from Jo.
Love doesn't always change when everything else does, he learned from the Brigadier.
Love doesn't always mean they won't forget him, he learned from Jamie and Zoe.
Love doesn't need to be made explicit, he learned from Ian and Barbara.
Love can make them leave, he learned from Susan.
He remembers. He still can't help himself, and Rose's shoulder feels warm to rest against, even if he doesn't need to sleep. It's nice to know he can, still.
He wonders what Rose will teach him in the end. Rose, who he didn't need to sleep with, but he's enough of a rebel to break his own rules too sometimes. Rose, who will keep trying to get her way and not quite getting there. Rose, who is brave most of the time, stupid some of the time, silly enough of the time and his all of the time. Rose, who he loves, or near enough.
Love has a whole different set of lessons to teach than sex has, he learns.
II
Lesson Eleven: Endings
He's always known there are supposed to be endings. Life goes to death, day goes to night, children go to grandparents, planets go to rocks and dust, suns go to ashes and Doctors go to silence. Everything is supposed to end, and he fights it. It's ever a losing battle, but, as long as there is no surrender, it remains a battle.
That is hope, or near enough.
It's easy to forget some prefer the peace of a truce.
"Do you ever get tired?" Rose asks him, an alien sun finding the dark in her eyes as she pauses at the doors to the TARDIS. Another adventure, another return to what is home, or near enough.
"Of stepping out into the glorious unknown, to boldly go where no Doctor and Rose have gone before?" he declares enthusiastically, before a troubling thought settles (one that isn't that he better not rip off Star Trek). "Why, are you?"
"Not that part," she says reassuringly, the wind nearly tearing Sir Edward Marshall-Hall's wig off her. "Watching people die who shouldn't have to. It doesn't seem fair."
"Who's to say what's fair?" he counters. "Many that live deserve death. Some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Fr- hang on, that's Lord of the Rings."
She laughs a little, and steadies herself against the TARDIS wall as he leans his forehead against hers.
"They don't always die," he whispers. "It's not always an unhappy ending."
"I know," she whispers back, drawing a thumb down his sideburns. "It's not always a happy one either."
She's not going to sleep like innocence tonight, he knows, and she clings to him a little desperately when he kisses her. Human Rose, so very human as he sinks her down on the grass in the setting sun of Ulh.
Sunrise to sunsets, life to death. Everything has a lifespan, and he can't shag her forever. Time doesn't work that way. She'll leave him sooner or later, because she's had enough, because she finds someone more willing to be what she wants, because she dies, because he drives her away, or whatever other reason the Universe might find. But, as long as he can lace his fingers in hers, he can think he's got a pretty good defence lined up for the fight.
That is hope, or near enough.
"Doctor," she whispers, dragging him by his tie to come face to face with her. "You're getting grass and dirt all over my top. It'll be the end of it."
"I'll get you a new one."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Better shag me, then."
"Yes."
He doesn't even notice that the sun's vanished beyond the horizon when he sinks into her, noting instead how Sir Edward Marshall-Hall's wig becomes her, how grass becomes her, how he becomes her and life becomes them both.
Everything ends, he doesn't really learn. He refuses to.
He's never going to learn the most important lesson of all, time knows.
FIN