Fic: A Very Hospitable Species
Title: A Very Hospitable Species
Characters/Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Rose
Rating: M
Word count: 4300ish
Spoilers: Not a one. Set mid to late S2.
Summary: A concept that never gets old: "We have been exposed to sex pollen/food/wine/chemical/air/big glowy rock." (Sorry, nonelvis. I laughed too hard at that not to use it.)
Author's notes: Long time listener, first time caller. I tried to take a cliche/crack!fic setup and treat it (fairly) seriously. I owe massive thanks to my fabulous and extraordinarily patient beta readers, kalleah and nonelvis. Not only did they make the story better, they slipped me enough tranquilizers to persuade me to actually post it.
It was one of the more unusual parties Rose had been to, which was saying something.
For one thing, it was on the planet Debrax, where the locals looked fairly humanoid except for the eyestalks. It was the Festival of Somebody-or-Other; Rose hadn't quite caught the name when they'd arrived. The Doctor had looked confused, but shrugged it off, saying that Debraxians threw great parties and this would be no exception. "Just be polite," he'd warned, as if she were the one who usually got them in trouble. "They're a very hospitable species, but they're easily offended if you don't seem to appreciate their efforts."
It didn't look like appreciation would be a problem. The party was being held in the courtyard of a grand building that looked like an old castle, all rough-hewn stone and climbing vines, and the night was mild and clear, stars growing brighter overhead as the sunset faded. Flickering lamps outlined stone paths that criss-crossed the courtyard's central grassy area.
All around Rose, Debraxians chatted and mingled, grouping around scattered tables of food and drink. Both males and females wore scanty togas, richly dyed in blue and green, decorated with luminescent patterns that glowed like constellations in the shadows. Rose didn't feel too out of place in her simple dress; it was a recent purchase, made of a shimmery, softly draping evening-blue material that the Doctor said was like silk, only from these giant dragonfly things he promised to take her to see soon. She had no intention of reminding him to follow through on that, but she thought the dress was flattering, an opinion that had only been reinforced by the wide-eyed look the Doctor had given her before ushering her out of the TARDIS.
Rose had anticipated dancing, but there didn't seem to be any in the offing. There was, however, music; alien music, which made her smile. A low, pulsating beat throbbed from unseen instruments, rumbling at the edge of her awareness, echoing faintly in her bones. The sensation was persistent but not unpleasant, making her want to sway a little to its rhythm, if not quite dance. She wondered if Debraxians could hear sounds lower than humans could; the Doctor would know, of course, but she wasn't quite sure where he'd got to. There didn't seem to be a commotion anywhere, so she assumed he was busy expressing his appreciation of the generously provided snacks.
She wasn't lacking company, at any rate; the Debraxians were friendly indeed. All she'd had to do was pause near one of the drink tables to be offered a glass of wine and enthusiastically introduced around. She had no hope of pronouncing, much less remembering, the names, but she smiled and nodded to everybody in turn. "Gorgeous night for a party," she said. "I like the music." The aliens beamed. Really, it wasn't that difficult to get used to people with eyestalks. They were a bit tactile, though-she kept her expression pleasant and tried not to pull away when one of them (Xa'ki'nak, was it?) fingered the strap of her dress, remarking on its unusual construction. It wasn't the first time she'd encountered a species whose concept of personal space clashed with hers.
"Rose," the most familiar voice on the planet said quietly behind her. She turned, raising an eyebrow at the slightly dishevelled Doctor. She'd helped him tidy his hair earlier, but he never remembered to keep his hands out of it. He flashed an apologetic smile at Xa'ki'nak and steered Rose away by the elbow. "Have you had any of that wine?" he murmured close to her ear, pushing her along through the milling crowd.
She nearly shivered as his breath brushed her skin, but covered it up with a laugh. "Get your own, there's plenty," she teased, holding her glass at arm's length away from him, trying not to spill.
His smile remained fixed, but his eyes were darting around the gathering and he spoke through gritted teeth. "Did. You. Drink. The. Wine."
Rose started at his sudden intensity. "No! Why? Oh my God, is it poisonous or something?"
The Doctor shook his head and kept her moving, slipping the glass from her suddenly uncertain fingers and depositing it on the nearest table. "No. Yes. Not like that. Nothing to worry about," he added breezily, though his refusal to look directly at her spoke very much of worry indeed.
"The Festival of Rhodana," he went on, before she could ask. "It's… well, etymologically speaking, it doesn't make much sense at all, though speakers of English can't be the only ones to cannibalise other languages whenever it's convenient. You really have to admire English. It's a Swiss army knife of a language. By the seventy-sixth century, it spreads across the whole of your galaxy, did you know that? Not that you'd recognise it by that point. The TARDIS would need to translate every word."
The babble was not reassuring. "Doctor," she said carefully, "what's wrong with the wine?"
"Ah, yes, wine. A great social lubricant. Almost literally, here. Tonight, for the Festival of Rhodana-and that's what I didn't understand; apparently Rhodana is the modern version of the old goddess Caraxa, whose name I would have recognized immediately. Bit rude of them, changing the names of their deities, especially since I rather doubt they asked permission." He quickened his steps as they drew away from the main throng, hurrying Rose along with him. "Caraxa, or Rhodana, or whoever, is the goddess of springtime and, um, the sowing of seeds and such, and our hosts wish to encourage... enthusiastic celebration. The wine is laced with a highly potent aphrodisiac." He twitched slightly. "Odourless. Tasteless. Rather surprising if you aren't expecting it. Which these people actually are, but that's beside the point."
Laughter spluttered out of Rose before she could stop it. "Are you trying to say you took me to an orgy? By accident? 'A very hospitable species,' yeah?" She averted her eyes from the darker alcoves, now that her mind was filling in the blanks.
He didn't respond. They passed under the archway that led to the corridor where they had left the TARDIS, and he pulled her aside, out of the courtyard's line of sight.
All at once it clicked into place. "Did you drink-"
He finally met her eyes. His pupils were huge, rimmed with just the barest edge of brown. "Yes," he said simply, flatly, and jerked his chin in the direction of the TARDIS. He didn't take her elbow again.
The TARDIS wasn't far, but all hope of a quiet departure evaporated when it came into view. A Debraxian was waiting for them, leaning against the locked doors. Instead of festive party dress, he wore a rather daunting uniform, matched by his rather daunting expression. "Kind of you to look after her," the Doctor said, a little too brightly. "We'll take it from here, though. Let you get back to the festival." He fished in his pocket for his key, shooting Rose a sidelong glance.
"Honoured guests," the Debraxian intoned ominously. "You refuse our hospitality?"
The Doctor raked a hand through his hair. "No, no, not at all. It's been lovely. But my companion is feeling ill, and I think we should retire..." He trailed off as the guard glared at both of them simultaneously. Eyestalks were good for that. Rose's stomach lurched. The Debraxian made an untranslatable grinding noise, and advanced upon them.
* * *
The cell was six paces long and four wide, which Rose knew because the Doctor had paced them off. Repeatedly. She sat resignedly on the narrow, flimsy camp bed, the only piece of furniture in an otherwise empty room; the white walls and plainly tiled floor seemed incongruous after the rustic courtyard.
After checking the door (blocked by a simple bar, immune to the high-tech blandishments of the sonic screwdriver), the Doctor had taken off his jacket and flung it in the corner, worrying at his tie to loosen it. He looked strangely vulnerable, almost naked, in shirtsleeves. Bad thought.
He was steadfastly ignoring her, stalking the room with his hands in his pockets, head down, face drawn. He seemed feverish, flushed and short of breath, worse off than he'd been at Christmas for all that he was still standing. Maybe not for much longer-he stumbled slightly as he turned for the hundredth time, and Rose was on her feet in an instant, stepping in front of him and raising a tentative hand toward his chest. He flinched.
"Doctor. Are you all right?"
"It's nothing," he said tightly. "I'm fine." He found something fascinating about his left shoe. "I may not be able to negate the imperative, but I am capable of channelling the effects sufficiently to allow me to work on developing an intervention in the response cycle."
"Just tell me," Rose said.
"Don't worry," he managed. "I can control myself. I am not going to fall upon you like some ravening… ape. I'm analysing the chemical structure of the additive now, and should be able to neutralise it. Given time," he added belatedly, making the whole statement a lot less reassuring. The cords in his neck stood out, a few stray strands of hair clinging to his damp forehead. She wanted to brush them back, soothe that tension. No. If he could resist the influence of the drug, she could control her own hormones. She wasn't going to make it harder for him. So to speak. She swallowed.
The Doctor shifted awkwardly. "The effects last eight hours, growing progressively stronger, unless they're... otherwise resolved." His mouth tightened into a flat line. "Now, please, I'm trying to concentrate."
* * *
The pacing had stopped a while ago; the Doctor was leaning against the far wall, eyes closed, breathing shallowly through his mouth. His neck was tilted back, head resting on the wall. Every so often he'd swallow hard, take a couple of deeper, shakier breaths, and then re-establish the same quiet rhythm.
Rose couldn't help it. She had so few opportunities to watch him unobserved, and he seemed utterly unaware of her. There was nothing here but the blank white walls and him, and so she looked at him, the taut lines of his face betraying a concentration so intense she could nearly hear it. Her gaze wandered lower-
She forced her eyes all the way down, resolutely, to her own shoes. Sparkly ballet pumps, good for dancing. She had no business looking at him like that. They'd laughed at the sequins on the shoes when she'd found them in the wardrobe room, making Wizard of Oz jokes, though these slippers were sapphire instead of ruby. And now he was standing a few yards from her, aroused to the point of pain-she'd seen it in his face. Hard and straining against the confines of his trousers-she'd seen that, too. Suffering. She scrubbed a sweaty palm on the skirt of her dress. She shouldn't be watching this. She should be doing something. Banging on the door. Planning an escape. Getting them separate cells. Anything.
Resolved, she shifted forward to stand. "That's close enough," the Doctor snapped, without opening his eyes. She froze, heart pounding, and slowly sank back onto the bed, returning to the study of her shoes.
* * *
Rose was running out of distractions. She'd slipped the shoes off some time ago and gone on to closely examine her painted toes (the opalescent polish, which changed hues with the relative humidity, was currently pale green, but she couldn't remember what that meant); the little scar on one ankle where she'd been bitten by a Rankanese Land Bat; and the plain silver bangle (of Earth origin) around her left wrist. Against her better judgement, she sneaked frequent glances at the Doctor.
He was hunched slightly, almost hyperventilating. Did human rules apply to him? Maybe he was... oxygenating. Breaking down the drug. His harsh breathing made her chest ache in sympathy. His eyes had opened but were vacant, all attention focused inward. He winced, fingers clenching in the fabric over his thighs. Pain. Or something else. Fidgeting, she looked away.
"Rose," he rasped. Startled, she jerked, knocking the bed frame against the wall. He was looking at her, actually seeing her, his expression like nothing she knew. It held resignation, and worry, and frayed weariness. And raw, naked need. The answering throb in her body came almost as a surprise.
"I'm sorry," he said unsteadily. "I can't stop it. The progressive nature of the chemical changes means that it's always a step ahead of me. The more time I spend analysing the drug, the less capacity I have to perform the analysis." He seemed to be trying for scientific detachment and failing. "There's only one way to deal with it at this point. If you could please, um, give me some… privacy." Heat flooded Rose's face, but the Doctor's eyes held a desperation beyond embarrassment. The rest came out in a rush. "It'llonlytakeaminute."
Rose swallowed, throat dry, and without a word (what could she say?) lay down on the bed, facing the wall a few inches away. As if she could possibly sleep. Or even pretend convincingly to sleep. The room was so, so quiet, and the tiniest shift of her body seemed ridiculously loud as the springs beneath her protested. Her own breathing. Her pulse pounding in her eardrums.
The shift of rubber soles on the floor.
A quiet rustle of cloth.
A noise that could only be a zip, lowered tooth by tooth by someone trying not to make a sound, someone as painfully self-conscious as she was at this moment. And then a long, low breath, nearly a sigh.
Rose tried not to imagine-well, it was like trying not to think of a pink elephant. What was she supposed to do, stick her head under the pillow? Recite nursery rhymes in her head? Or aloud, to keep from hearing the soft noises of movement that she was trying very hard not to interpret in any way. No, no nursery rhymes; if she started prattling on about Mary and her little lamb, the Doctor probably wouldn't be able to… do what he needed to do.
She was definitely not listening to the steadily quickening pace of his breathing. God, he was the one who'd been drugged, not her. She had no excuse for the heat that was creeping through her body, and certainly no excuse to do anything about her growing discomfort. He, at least, had nothing to be ashamed of.
Wasn't he done yet? Maybe this wasn't easy with your companion listening in, whatever the provocation.
A helpless little groan, stifled as soon as it began.
Something in Rose snapped, and she sat up all at once, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. "Doctor."
"Don't!" he yelped, glancing frantically over his shoulder. He was facing the corner, fumbling with his clothing. Taking in her expression, he slowly turned, backing against the wall, hands twitching as though he'd briefly had the urge to cover himself. But his untucked shirt hung loosely over his trousers, disguising any... well, anything. Mostly.
"Rose," he said. "I'm sorry. I really, truly am. Very, very, very sorry. But I really need to get this over with. I'm not enjoying it any more than you are."
A million possible responses to that collided in her head. She stood, momentarily fearless. "Come here."
His eyes widened with panic. "We can't. I would never take advantage of you like that. This is hardly the place. In this state-you wouldn't get anything out of it." He didn't seem to be tracking how many different answers he gave. "This isn't how I would have wanted it."
"So you've thought about it." She took a slow step forward.
"Well. I've thought about most things in the universe, haven't I? Brain the size of… no, never mind that."
Closer. "I can't do this," she said. "I can't sit there and pretend I don't hear. And if we've both wanted-" She nearly bit her tongue, on the verge of losing her nerve, not sure he was even listening anymore. He was staring at her with a sort of vague, abstracted wonder, as if she were a new species he'd just now encountered and had no idea how to catalogue. She was only a single step from him now, and she shifted up onto her toes.
Before she could lean in, the Doctor ducked his head and met her lips with his, hard and frantic. She fell into him, palms hitting the wall, their mouths coming together with reckless urgency; her teeth caught his lip and he moaned, pressing in harder. He clutched at her hips, her arse, pulling her firmly against him. The pressure of his erection against her belly, starkly apparent even through their clothing, made her gasp, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue past her lips, exploring her mouth with unexpected delicacy.
A hot, slippery, breathless moment later, Rose broke away and fumbled with his tie, pulling at it until the loosened knot gave way. Buttons. Buttons were too difficult. She abandoned them and tugged up a fistful of shirt so she could slip her hands underneath. He kissed her again, and she revelled in the softness of his lips, how eagerly he parted them for her. The muscles in his belly tightened under her touch, the strangled whimper in his throat quite possibly the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.
His fingers skimmed her back, an instant before he yanked down the zip of her dress; she squirmed away just far enough to let the garment slip down and pool at her feet. Thank goodness she'd worn a matching bra and knickers. Not the raciest lingerie she owned-just a simple, pale blue satin, to complement the dress-but when he buried his face between her breasts and ran his tongue along the edge where satin gave way to skin, she found it didn't matter. Warm hands stroked up her bare arms, then slid the bra straps from her shoulders and pulled one cup down, lips and tongue chasing the newly exposed skin. Rose mewed when his teeth grazed her stiffened nipple, and he closed his lips around it and sucked, quick and strong. He stroked her other breast through the satin, running his fingertips back and forth over the nipple, his free hand working behind her back until her bra suddenly went loose.
Casting it aside, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and urged him upward; he gathered her to him as he straightened, rolling them both until she was the one against the wall. He was kissing her chin, lipping down her jawline, biting at the pulse in her throat. His hands slid under her buttocks, lifting her slightly so he could better fit himself against her. Only her knickers and his thin trousers separated them, and she couldn't hold back a cry, arching to meet his sudden thrust.
He drew a sharp breath and went still, mumbling something indistinct into the crook of her neck. It was getting hard to think, and the fingers squeezing her bum did not help matters. She made a small inquiring noise; he gave a shaky sigh before he finally lifted his head enough to speak, his earnest tone at odds with their current position. "You know I'm not given to false modesty-well, any modesty-and it's hardly realistic to expect me to disparage my own prowess in, um, anything." Rose licked the edge of his ear, and was gratified by his tiny squeak. "But given the circumstances, I wouldn't want your expectations to exceed-" He cut off abruptly as she nipped his earlobe.
"It's okay," she whispered, kneading at the tense muscles of his shoulders. He rubbed his cheek against hers-he'd shaved before they left for the party-and nuzzled back down her neck. Oh, hell, there was one thing left to ask. "Condoms?"
He was too busy tracing her collarbone with his tongue to answer for a moment, and she was too busy shivering to make him. "No need," he said. "Not biologically compatible enough for accidents." If it were any other alien, she'd have figured that was a line, but she'd trusted the Doctor with her life for so long that it was instinct. She nodded, unable to speak. Slowly, carefully, he eased away from her, letting her full weight back onto her feet as he slid his hands from beneath her, turning it into a caress. He lingered over the waistband of her knickers, and she leaned away from the wall for him to tug them down.
Those long, elegant fingers were clumsy, half-shy on his own buttons, exposing his thin, pale chest inch by inch. Just a little hair, light, soft. So human, and not. He shrugged his shirt to the floor, then caught and held her gaze with his as he unfastened his trousers and pushed them down. She wasn't going to-she couldn't-she glanced down. It took her a moment to drag her eyes back up to his face.
He looked serious. And really naked. Her breath caught, and she held out her hand.
He took it.
The bedsprings squeaked alarmingly as they hit the mattress together, the Doctor on top, all gangly limbs and bony hips and oh. The head of his cock brushed wetly against her and she couldn't breathe. His eyes met hers, wild, intent, then squeezed shut as he thrust into her with a ragged moan. It was so slick and easy that she was almost embarrassed, but the fleeting thought was lost in the pleasure of it, hard and deep and full, and she groaned, pressing up to meet him. He rocked his hips, moving inside her just a tiny bit, as though he wanted to be still but couldn't quite manage. His body was taut and trembling against hers.
He was trying to hold back. The thought alone made her muscles flutter involuntarily around him. He gasped, hips jerking, his fingers digging into the mattress on either side of her head as he gave in and thrust again, harder. Again, and she didn't think either of them could stop now. Nothing mattered but the damp skin of his shoulder blades under her hands, his hips moving between her thighs, the hard slide of his cock, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter within her. They strained together, panting, the pitch of the Doctor's gasps rising with every breath. The rhythmic squeak of the springs beneath them grew faster, louder, and he let out a wrenching groan, his thrusts going rough with abandon. It was the agonised relief in his voice that threw her over the edge, made her spasm around him and clutch at his back. He cried out again, warm and wet inside her as he shuddered and kept moving.
He held on for a few last long, full strokes before collapsing over her in a tangle of sweaty limbs, breath slowing in little subsiding moans. His legs were long and lean, and Rose quite liked the feel of them between hers, she mused, hooking an ankle over his and stroking her foot up his calf. It was very, very comfortable. They should spend more time like this. Really. The Doctor seemed to have all but passed out, and she was drifting herself, languidly enjoying his limp weight.
She was jolted out of her lassitude when he suddenly went tense against her-coincidentally slipping out, which made her gasp-and shifted up onto his forearms to look her in the face. His eyes were wide and sane, full of fear and concern. "Rose. Are you okay? Did you-I mean-"
Under the circumstances, she was actually impressed that he'd managed to pay as much attention to her as he had, but somehow she'd figured he would have noticed that part. "Yes, thanks." She cleared her throat. "That was... um." She tried to think of an adequate word and failed, realized how horrible that sentence had sounded, and abruptly was hit by another worry. "Are you okay?" Are we okay?
"Yes," the Doctor said softly, in a voice that left no room for doubt. A sheepish smile tugged at one side of his mouth. "I told you, I could have controlled myself. Though I might have liked to wait for a slightly nicer occasion. The autumn ball on Aciplox Three, say." He rolled onto his side, barely fitting between Rose and the wall, and tucked her close against him. "You should see the trees, a thousand colours you couldn't imagine. There's dancing until dawn. Jumping in great big piles of leaves, too."
Rose pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his hearts. "We'd probably get thrown in prison there, too," she pointed out, yawning. "Speaking of which, are they going to let us out?"
He nodded against the top of her head, one hand toying with her hair. "In the morning, I expect. Simple refusal of hospitality is a minor offence, punishable only by a night in detention." Rose snorted her opinion of that, and he chuckled, nudging her chin up so he could kiss her nose, then her mouth, soft and undemanding.
"When's morning?" she asked when they parted.
"Oh, about six hours from now," he responded, with a slow smile that said he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"Mmm." She stroked her palm over his hip, and he let her. "All the time in the world."
He nuzzled lazily across her cheek and to her ear, his breath slow and hot. "Want to do it properly, then?"
Characters/Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Rose
Rating: M
Word count: 4300ish
Spoilers: Not a one. Set mid to late S2.
Summary: A concept that never gets old: "We have been exposed to sex pollen/food/wine/chemical/air/big glowy rock." (Sorry, nonelvis. I laughed too hard at that not to use it.)
Author's notes: Long time listener, first time caller. I tried to take a cliche/crack!fic setup and treat it (fairly) seriously. I owe massive thanks to my fabulous and extraordinarily patient beta readers, kalleah and nonelvis. Not only did they make the story better, they slipped me enough tranquilizers to persuade me to actually post it.
It was one of the more unusual parties Rose had been to, which was saying something.
For one thing, it was on the planet Debrax, where the locals looked fairly humanoid except for the eyestalks. It was the Festival of Somebody-or-Other; Rose hadn't quite caught the name when they'd arrived. The Doctor had looked confused, but shrugged it off, saying that Debraxians threw great parties and this would be no exception. "Just be polite," he'd warned, as if she were the one who usually got them in trouble. "They're a very hospitable species, but they're easily offended if you don't seem to appreciate their efforts."
It didn't look like appreciation would be a problem. The party was being held in the courtyard of a grand building that looked like an old castle, all rough-hewn stone and climbing vines, and the night was mild and clear, stars growing brighter overhead as the sunset faded. Flickering lamps outlined stone paths that criss-crossed the courtyard's central grassy area.
All around Rose, Debraxians chatted and mingled, grouping around scattered tables of food and drink. Both males and females wore scanty togas, richly dyed in blue and green, decorated with luminescent patterns that glowed like constellations in the shadows. Rose didn't feel too out of place in her simple dress; it was a recent purchase, made of a shimmery, softly draping evening-blue material that the Doctor said was like silk, only from these giant dragonfly things he promised to take her to see soon. She had no intention of reminding him to follow through on that, but she thought the dress was flattering, an opinion that had only been reinforced by the wide-eyed look the Doctor had given her before ushering her out of the TARDIS.
Rose had anticipated dancing, but there didn't seem to be any in the offing. There was, however, music; alien music, which made her smile. A low, pulsating beat throbbed from unseen instruments, rumbling at the edge of her awareness, echoing faintly in her bones. The sensation was persistent but not unpleasant, making her want to sway a little to its rhythm, if not quite dance. She wondered if Debraxians could hear sounds lower than humans could; the Doctor would know, of course, but she wasn't quite sure where he'd got to. There didn't seem to be a commotion anywhere, so she assumed he was busy expressing his appreciation of the generously provided snacks.
She wasn't lacking company, at any rate; the Debraxians were friendly indeed. All she'd had to do was pause near one of the drink tables to be offered a glass of wine and enthusiastically introduced around. She had no hope of pronouncing, much less remembering, the names, but she smiled and nodded to everybody in turn. "Gorgeous night for a party," she said. "I like the music." The aliens beamed. Really, it wasn't that difficult to get used to people with eyestalks. They were a bit tactile, though-she kept her expression pleasant and tried not to pull away when one of them (Xa'ki'nak, was it?) fingered the strap of her dress, remarking on its unusual construction. It wasn't the first time she'd encountered a species whose concept of personal space clashed with hers.
"Rose," the most familiar voice on the planet said quietly behind her. She turned, raising an eyebrow at the slightly dishevelled Doctor. She'd helped him tidy his hair earlier, but he never remembered to keep his hands out of it. He flashed an apologetic smile at Xa'ki'nak and steered Rose away by the elbow. "Have you had any of that wine?" he murmured close to her ear, pushing her along through the milling crowd.
She nearly shivered as his breath brushed her skin, but covered it up with a laugh. "Get your own, there's plenty," she teased, holding her glass at arm's length away from him, trying not to spill.
His smile remained fixed, but his eyes were darting around the gathering and he spoke through gritted teeth. "Did. You. Drink. The. Wine."
Rose started at his sudden intensity. "No! Why? Oh my God, is it poisonous or something?"
The Doctor shook his head and kept her moving, slipping the glass from her suddenly uncertain fingers and depositing it on the nearest table. "No. Yes. Not like that. Nothing to worry about," he added breezily, though his refusal to look directly at her spoke very much of worry indeed.
"The Festival of Rhodana," he went on, before she could ask. "It's… well, etymologically speaking, it doesn't make much sense at all, though speakers of English can't be the only ones to cannibalise other languages whenever it's convenient. You really have to admire English. It's a Swiss army knife of a language. By the seventy-sixth century, it spreads across the whole of your galaxy, did you know that? Not that you'd recognise it by that point. The TARDIS would need to translate every word."
The babble was not reassuring. "Doctor," she said carefully, "what's wrong with the wine?"
"Ah, yes, wine. A great social lubricant. Almost literally, here. Tonight, for the Festival of Rhodana-and that's what I didn't understand; apparently Rhodana is the modern version of the old goddess Caraxa, whose name I would have recognized immediately. Bit rude of them, changing the names of their deities, especially since I rather doubt they asked permission." He quickened his steps as they drew away from the main throng, hurrying Rose along with him. "Caraxa, or Rhodana, or whoever, is the goddess of springtime and, um, the sowing of seeds and such, and our hosts wish to encourage... enthusiastic celebration. The wine is laced with a highly potent aphrodisiac." He twitched slightly. "Odourless. Tasteless. Rather surprising if you aren't expecting it. Which these people actually are, but that's beside the point."
Laughter spluttered out of Rose before she could stop it. "Are you trying to say you took me to an orgy? By accident? 'A very hospitable species,' yeah?" She averted her eyes from the darker alcoves, now that her mind was filling in the blanks.
He didn't respond. They passed under the archway that led to the corridor where they had left the TARDIS, and he pulled her aside, out of the courtyard's line of sight.
All at once it clicked into place. "Did you drink-"
He finally met her eyes. His pupils were huge, rimmed with just the barest edge of brown. "Yes," he said simply, flatly, and jerked his chin in the direction of the TARDIS. He didn't take her elbow again.
The TARDIS wasn't far, but all hope of a quiet departure evaporated when it came into view. A Debraxian was waiting for them, leaning against the locked doors. Instead of festive party dress, he wore a rather daunting uniform, matched by his rather daunting expression. "Kind of you to look after her," the Doctor said, a little too brightly. "We'll take it from here, though. Let you get back to the festival." He fished in his pocket for his key, shooting Rose a sidelong glance.
"Honoured guests," the Debraxian intoned ominously. "You refuse our hospitality?"
The Doctor raked a hand through his hair. "No, no, not at all. It's been lovely. But my companion is feeling ill, and I think we should retire..." He trailed off as the guard glared at both of them simultaneously. Eyestalks were good for that. Rose's stomach lurched. The Debraxian made an untranslatable grinding noise, and advanced upon them.
* * *
The cell was six paces long and four wide, which Rose knew because the Doctor had paced them off. Repeatedly. She sat resignedly on the narrow, flimsy camp bed, the only piece of furniture in an otherwise empty room; the white walls and plainly tiled floor seemed incongruous after the rustic courtyard.
After checking the door (blocked by a simple bar, immune to the high-tech blandishments of the sonic screwdriver), the Doctor had taken off his jacket and flung it in the corner, worrying at his tie to loosen it. He looked strangely vulnerable, almost naked, in shirtsleeves. Bad thought.
He was steadfastly ignoring her, stalking the room with his hands in his pockets, head down, face drawn. He seemed feverish, flushed and short of breath, worse off than he'd been at Christmas for all that he was still standing. Maybe not for much longer-he stumbled slightly as he turned for the hundredth time, and Rose was on her feet in an instant, stepping in front of him and raising a tentative hand toward his chest. He flinched.
"Doctor. Are you all right?"
"It's nothing," he said tightly. "I'm fine." He found something fascinating about his left shoe. "I may not be able to negate the imperative, but I am capable of channelling the effects sufficiently to allow me to work on developing an intervention in the response cycle."
"Just tell me," Rose said.
"Don't worry," he managed. "I can control myself. I am not going to fall upon you like some ravening… ape. I'm analysing the chemical structure of the additive now, and should be able to neutralise it. Given time," he added belatedly, making the whole statement a lot less reassuring. The cords in his neck stood out, a few stray strands of hair clinging to his damp forehead. She wanted to brush them back, soothe that tension. No. If he could resist the influence of the drug, she could control her own hormones. She wasn't going to make it harder for him. So to speak. She swallowed.
The Doctor shifted awkwardly. "The effects last eight hours, growing progressively stronger, unless they're... otherwise resolved." His mouth tightened into a flat line. "Now, please, I'm trying to concentrate."
* * *
The pacing had stopped a while ago; the Doctor was leaning against the far wall, eyes closed, breathing shallowly through his mouth. His neck was tilted back, head resting on the wall. Every so often he'd swallow hard, take a couple of deeper, shakier breaths, and then re-establish the same quiet rhythm.
Rose couldn't help it. She had so few opportunities to watch him unobserved, and he seemed utterly unaware of her. There was nothing here but the blank white walls and him, and so she looked at him, the taut lines of his face betraying a concentration so intense she could nearly hear it. Her gaze wandered lower-
She forced her eyes all the way down, resolutely, to her own shoes. Sparkly ballet pumps, good for dancing. She had no business looking at him like that. They'd laughed at the sequins on the shoes when she'd found them in the wardrobe room, making Wizard of Oz jokes, though these slippers were sapphire instead of ruby. And now he was standing a few yards from her, aroused to the point of pain-she'd seen it in his face. Hard and straining against the confines of his trousers-she'd seen that, too. Suffering. She scrubbed a sweaty palm on the skirt of her dress. She shouldn't be watching this. She should be doing something. Banging on the door. Planning an escape. Getting them separate cells. Anything.
Resolved, she shifted forward to stand. "That's close enough," the Doctor snapped, without opening his eyes. She froze, heart pounding, and slowly sank back onto the bed, returning to the study of her shoes.
* * *
Rose was running out of distractions. She'd slipped the shoes off some time ago and gone on to closely examine her painted toes (the opalescent polish, which changed hues with the relative humidity, was currently pale green, but she couldn't remember what that meant); the little scar on one ankle where she'd been bitten by a Rankanese Land Bat; and the plain silver bangle (of Earth origin) around her left wrist. Against her better judgement, she sneaked frequent glances at the Doctor.
He was hunched slightly, almost hyperventilating. Did human rules apply to him? Maybe he was... oxygenating. Breaking down the drug. His harsh breathing made her chest ache in sympathy. His eyes had opened but were vacant, all attention focused inward. He winced, fingers clenching in the fabric over his thighs. Pain. Or something else. Fidgeting, she looked away.
"Rose," he rasped. Startled, she jerked, knocking the bed frame against the wall. He was looking at her, actually seeing her, his expression like nothing she knew. It held resignation, and worry, and frayed weariness. And raw, naked need. The answering throb in her body came almost as a surprise.
"I'm sorry," he said unsteadily. "I can't stop it. The progressive nature of the chemical changes means that it's always a step ahead of me. The more time I spend analysing the drug, the less capacity I have to perform the analysis." He seemed to be trying for scientific detachment and failing. "There's only one way to deal with it at this point. If you could please, um, give me some… privacy." Heat flooded Rose's face, but the Doctor's eyes held a desperation beyond embarrassment. The rest came out in a rush. "It'llonlytakeaminute."
Rose swallowed, throat dry, and without a word (what could she say?) lay down on the bed, facing the wall a few inches away. As if she could possibly sleep. Or even pretend convincingly to sleep. The room was so, so quiet, and the tiniest shift of her body seemed ridiculously loud as the springs beneath her protested. Her own breathing. Her pulse pounding in her eardrums.
The shift of rubber soles on the floor.
A quiet rustle of cloth.
A noise that could only be a zip, lowered tooth by tooth by someone trying not to make a sound, someone as painfully self-conscious as she was at this moment. And then a long, low breath, nearly a sigh.
Rose tried not to imagine-well, it was like trying not to think of a pink elephant. What was she supposed to do, stick her head under the pillow? Recite nursery rhymes in her head? Or aloud, to keep from hearing the soft noises of movement that she was trying very hard not to interpret in any way. No, no nursery rhymes; if she started prattling on about Mary and her little lamb, the Doctor probably wouldn't be able to… do what he needed to do.
She was definitely not listening to the steadily quickening pace of his breathing. God, he was the one who'd been drugged, not her. She had no excuse for the heat that was creeping through her body, and certainly no excuse to do anything about her growing discomfort. He, at least, had nothing to be ashamed of.
Wasn't he done yet? Maybe this wasn't easy with your companion listening in, whatever the provocation.
A helpless little groan, stifled as soon as it began.
Something in Rose snapped, and she sat up all at once, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. "Doctor."
"Don't!" he yelped, glancing frantically over his shoulder. He was facing the corner, fumbling with his clothing. Taking in her expression, he slowly turned, backing against the wall, hands twitching as though he'd briefly had the urge to cover himself. But his untucked shirt hung loosely over his trousers, disguising any... well, anything. Mostly.
"Rose," he said. "I'm sorry. I really, truly am. Very, very, very sorry. But I really need to get this over with. I'm not enjoying it any more than you are."
A million possible responses to that collided in her head. She stood, momentarily fearless. "Come here."
His eyes widened with panic. "We can't. I would never take advantage of you like that. This is hardly the place. In this state-you wouldn't get anything out of it." He didn't seem to be tracking how many different answers he gave. "This isn't how I would have wanted it."
"So you've thought about it." She took a slow step forward.
"Well. I've thought about most things in the universe, haven't I? Brain the size of… no, never mind that."
Closer. "I can't do this," she said. "I can't sit there and pretend I don't hear. And if we've both wanted-" She nearly bit her tongue, on the verge of losing her nerve, not sure he was even listening anymore. He was staring at her with a sort of vague, abstracted wonder, as if she were a new species he'd just now encountered and had no idea how to catalogue. She was only a single step from him now, and she shifted up onto her toes.
Before she could lean in, the Doctor ducked his head and met her lips with his, hard and frantic. She fell into him, palms hitting the wall, their mouths coming together with reckless urgency; her teeth caught his lip and he moaned, pressing in harder. He clutched at her hips, her arse, pulling her firmly against him. The pressure of his erection against her belly, starkly apparent even through their clothing, made her gasp, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue past her lips, exploring her mouth with unexpected delicacy.
A hot, slippery, breathless moment later, Rose broke away and fumbled with his tie, pulling at it until the loosened knot gave way. Buttons. Buttons were too difficult. She abandoned them and tugged up a fistful of shirt so she could slip her hands underneath. He kissed her again, and she revelled in the softness of his lips, how eagerly he parted them for her. The muscles in his belly tightened under her touch, the strangled whimper in his throat quite possibly the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.
His fingers skimmed her back, an instant before he yanked down the zip of her dress; she squirmed away just far enough to let the garment slip down and pool at her feet. Thank goodness she'd worn a matching bra and knickers. Not the raciest lingerie she owned-just a simple, pale blue satin, to complement the dress-but when he buried his face between her breasts and ran his tongue along the edge where satin gave way to skin, she found it didn't matter. Warm hands stroked up her bare arms, then slid the bra straps from her shoulders and pulled one cup down, lips and tongue chasing the newly exposed skin. Rose mewed when his teeth grazed her stiffened nipple, and he closed his lips around it and sucked, quick and strong. He stroked her other breast through the satin, running his fingertips back and forth over the nipple, his free hand working behind her back until her bra suddenly went loose.
Casting it aside, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and urged him upward; he gathered her to him as he straightened, rolling them both until she was the one against the wall. He was kissing her chin, lipping down her jawline, biting at the pulse in her throat. His hands slid under her buttocks, lifting her slightly so he could better fit himself against her. Only her knickers and his thin trousers separated them, and she couldn't hold back a cry, arching to meet his sudden thrust.
He drew a sharp breath and went still, mumbling something indistinct into the crook of her neck. It was getting hard to think, and the fingers squeezing her bum did not help matters. She made a small inquiring noise; he gave a shaky sigh before he finally lifted his head enough to speak, his earnest tone at odds with their current position. "You know I'm not given to false modesty-well, any modesty-and it's hardly realistic to expect me to disparage my own prowess in, um, anything." Rose licked the edge of his ear, and was gratified by his tiny squeak. "But given the circumstances, I wouldn't want your expectations to exceed-" He cut off abruptly as she nipped his earlobe.
"It's okay," she whispered, kneading at the tense muscles of his shoulders. He rubbed his cheek against hers-he'd shaved before they left for the party-and nuzzled back down her neck. Oh, hell, there was one thing left to ask. "Condoms?"
He was too busy tracing her collarbone with his tongue to answer for a moment, and she was too busy shivering to make him. "No need," he said. "Not biologically compatible enough for accidents." If it were any other alien, she'd have figured that was a line, but she'd trusted the Doctor with her life for so long that it was instinct. She nodded, unable to speak. Slowly, carefully, he eased away from her, letting her full weight back onto her feet as he slid his hands from beneath her, turning it into a caress. He lingered over the waistband of her knickers, and she leaned away from the wall for him to tug them down.
Those long, elegant fingers were clumsy, half-shy on his own buttons, exposing his thin, pale chest inch by inch. Just a little hair, light, soft. So human, and not. He shrugged his shirt to the floor, then caught and held her gaze with his as he unfastened his trousers and pushed them down. She wasn't going to-she couldn't-she glanced down. It took her a moment to drag her eyes back up to his face.
He looked serious. And really naked. Her breath caught, and she held out her hand.
He took it.
The bedsprings squeaked alarmingly as they hit the mattress together, the Doctor on top, all gangly limbs and bony hips and oh. The head of his cock brushed wetly against her and she couldn't breathe. His eyes met hers, wild, intent, then squeezed shut as he thrust into her with a ragged moan. It was so slick and easy that she was almost embarrassed, but the fleeting thought was lost in the pleasure of it, hard and deep and full, and she groaned, pressing up to meet him. He rocked his hips, moving inside her just a tiny bit, as though he wanted to be still but couldn't quite manage. His body was taut and trembling against hers.
He was trying to hold back. The thought alone made her muscles flutter involuntarily around him. He gasped, hips jerking, his fingers digging into the mattress on either side of her head as he gave in and thrust again, harder. Again, and she didn't think either of them could stop now. Nothing mattered but the damp skin of his shoulder blades under her hands, his hips moving between her thighs, the hard slide of his cock, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter within her. They strained together, panting, the pitch of the Doctor's gasps rising with every breath. The rhythmic squeak of the springs beneath them grew faster, louder, and he let out a wrenching groan, his thrusts going rough with abandon. It was the agonised relief in his voice that threw her over the edge, made her spasm around him and clutch at his back. He cried out again, warm and wet inside her as he shuddered and kept moving.
He held on for a few last long, full strokes before collapsing over her in a tangle of sweaty limbs, breath slowing in little subsiding moans. His legs were long and lean, and Rose quite liked the feel of them between hers, she mused, hooking an ankle over his and stroking her foot up his calf. It was very, very comfortable. They should spend more time like this. Really. The Doctor seemed to have all but passed out, and she was drifting herself, languidly enjoying his limp weight.
She was jolted out of her lassitude when he suddenly went tense against her-coincidentally slipping out, which made her gasp-and shifted up onto his forearms to look her in the face. His eyes were wide and sane, full of fear and concern. "Rose. Are you okay? Did you-I mean-"
Under the circumstances, she was actually impressed that he'd managed to pay as much attention to her as he had, but somehow she'd figured he would have noticed that part. "Yes, thanks." She cleared her throat. "That was... um." She tried to think of an adequate word and failed, realized how horrible that sentence had sounded, and abruptly was hit by another worry. "Are you okay?" Are we okay?
"Yes," the Doctor said softly, in a voice that left no room for doubt. A sheepish smile tugged at one side of his mouth. "I told you, I could have controlled myself. Though I might have liked to wait for a slightly nicer occasion. The autumn ball on Aciplox Three, say." He rolled onto his side, barely fitting between Rose and the wall, and tucked her close against him. "You should see the trees, a thousand colours you couldn't imagine. There's dancing until dawn. Jumping in great big piles of leaves, too."
Rose pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his hearts. "We'd probably get thrown in prison there, too," she pointed out, yawning. "Speaking of which, are they going to let us out?"
He nodded against the top of her head, one hand toying with her hair. "In the morning, I expect. Simple refusal of hospitality is a minor offence, punishable only by a night in detention." Rose snorted her opinion of that, and he chuckled, nudging her chin up so he could kiss her nose, then her mouth, soft and undemanding.
"When's morning?" she asked when they parted.
"Oh, about six hours from now," he responded, with a slow smile that said he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"Mmm." She stroked her palm over his hip, and he let her. "All the time in the world."
He nuzzled lazily across her cheek and to her ear, his breath slow and hot. "Want to do it properly, then?"