![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberfocusA/N: Sequel to Need. Set a few weeks later directly after the episode Dalek. Rose/Nine with Adam on the ship. Written for Lillibet on Teaspoon because she most emphatically didn't think it should end there. Angst, Hurt/Comfort, barest smidgeon of romance. And yes, HM is coming along, chapter's almost done now.
Want
The boy is brilliant and stupid all at the same time and despite the danger of this combination and because he will deny Rose nothing he has let him come along, but he will not let the child get any ideas into his head that Rose is someone he will share, for he will not. He almost lost her today, through his own idiocy, through the idiocy of other people, to a Dalek of all things and he will not lose her to something lesser, something unworthy of fighting, this unknown and unwanted person he has allowed upon his ship.
He follows as Rose takes Adam to a room for the night, unwilling or perhaps unable to let her leave his sight. Unwilling to let the boy have one moment alone with her, unable to believe she is still alive, that he did not lose her, that a Dalek could show mercy.
“Come to bed, Rose,” he says and it is almost a command for she lingers a bit longer than he likes. He enjoys the look that crosses Adam’s face as he glances back and forth between Rose and himself, as Adam realizes that Rose is off limits, belongs to him; is less sure of himself when he sees the look Rose turns on him, seeing right through him, knowing what he is doing in regards to the boy, thinking he is simply marking his territory.
But she takes his hand and if he holds hers too tightly she says nothing of it. This night, for the first time, he follows her to her bed. He has slept, only slept, with her often, nightly for weeks now, but never deliberately. Always he has come to her after she’s been sleeping, when the demons will not cease their torment of his mind, never has he walked with her into her room when the lights were still on.
She looks at him steadily, wordless and expressionless, not knowing what to expect, never knowing what to expect when it comes to him. “It’s all right,” she finally says. “You can go. You’ve made your point to him.”
But he doesn’t leave, doesn’t want to leave, because she almost died and he almost lost her and he knows now that his need of her is not the only thing there is. There is also want and he wants Rose Tyler. He stares at her, moistens his lips, tries to speak, to let out something of what is pouring through his mind at speeds even his brain would not be able to calculate were he to stop and try. He opens his mouth, shuts it, feels both of his hearts pounding so fast and it’s like he’s forgotten everything he’s ever known about the opposite sex, everything he’s learned in nine hundred years of time and space. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps he should leave.
“I need to change my clothes, Doctor,” she says. She pushes him now, out into the corridor and he doesn’t want to go, wants to stay as she removes the clothing from her body, wants to help her lift the garments from her curvy frame. That choice is denied him, though she offered it once, that first night, when this thing of sharing her bed first began and he’d been too proud, too arrogant, too unwilling to admit he needed a human, wanted a human. But she's more than a human. She's Rose.
The door clicks behind him and he still has said nothing and all he can think about is the fabric sliding from her body as she takes off each garment, his hearing strong enough to hear the rustling through the door as the items fall to the floor one by one. He doesn’t even wince at the untidiness of it, thinks only that for this moment she is naked and glorious and then he hears the smooth sliding sound of satin as it caresses her skin on its way to covering her body, that beautiful body hidden away beneath some pretty gown.
And then the door opens just a bit, just those few inches that she leaves it open every night and he cannot help himself, seconds later he pushes it open, startles her, shuts it behind him. She turns, her hand in the act of reaching for the bedclothes, and his eyes burn down the length of her body, taking in the emerald green satin of what is little more than a chemise. It barely covers the tops of her thighs and as he stares at her legs he wonders that he’d never realized they were this long before.
His eyes drift up her body slowly, taking in the way the fabric skims her hips, is slightly looser at the waist and positively clings to her breasts and his hands twitch at his sides, his fingers ache to touch places he has never let himself touch. “Doctor?” she asks softly. “Did you want something?”
He wants something, wants her, wants to bury himself inside her and convince himself in ways he’s not allowed that she is still alive. His hearts beat faster, his pulses thundering in his ears and his respiratory bypass system doing him no good whatsoever. He swallows hard, his eyes feel like they are burning as he drags them up to hers, meets those warm copper pools of emotion that could bring him to his knees if he ever gave in to his want.
“Doctor?” And her tone has shifted slightly towards the irritated and somehow he finds a way to recover his speech.
“I thought tonight…I’m tired, Rose.” That’s all he’ll admit to, all he can admit to and she simply nods at him in quiet acceptance of his words.
Rose slips into the bathroom, returns to find him undressed and in her bed, his clothes folded neatly on her armchair, her own folded neatly beside his. She wonders at the domesticity of his action in doing that, wonders if he’s trying to tell her anything by his actions, frowns at herself for her silly flight of fancy when it is likely his addiction for neatening everything on his ship and nothing else.
She turns off her bedside lamp and slides into bed beside him, turns on her side. She is waiting for that moment when he will turn on his side and pull her body towards him, fit himself to her as if they were two pieces of a jigsaw, parts interlocking to hold them together, parts interlocking but never quite the right ones, never quite the ones she wants to interlock.
He doesn’t move and she wonders what is going through his head, if he is blaming himself for the fact that she almost died today, when it was her own stupidity in touching the Dalek in the first place that brought it back to full strength. And then it hits her, fully hits her for the first time that she almost died today and she begins to shake and the tears start to fall. And she wishes that she could seek comfort in the Doctor’s body tonight of all nights, that he would give her this and she would never seek it again from him if only he would.
She wants to know she is alive, wants to burn underneath his touch, wants to feel something other than this burning, empty, aching loneliness beside him. She tries to keep her noises quiet in the darkness, to not sniffle as the moisture leaks from her eyes, but she should know by now that even if she could be quiet enough to escape his sensitive hearing he’d still smell the excess saltiness extruded in her tears.
His hand is on her shoulder, but he does not pull her to him, instead pressing down and towards the bed until she lays on her back and then he reaches for her far shoulder and is gathering her into his body, so they are laying stomach to stomach, the softness of her breasts and hips pressed into the unyielding surface of his chest and pelvis. He says nonsense words to her in the dark as his hands make soothing motions on her back, stroke her hair, and one hand slides all the way to the swelling of her hip, brushing slightly across her bum.
Her sob changes in that moment to a gasp and his hand stills against her and she thinks he must have realized he’s accidently gone somewhere out of bounds, though nowhere is out of bounds to him if he would only break his self-imposed rules. “Rose.” His voice is hushed and frightened and unsure, but there is something, always something in the way he says her name, the way he imbues it with such emotion and…want. Tonight there is want in his voice.
“Doctor,” she says trying to put into those two syllables what he has managed to put into one. He pulls her tighter into him, fiercely, until there is no space at all left between their bodies and one of her thighs is trapped between his. Her fingers trail across his back and she can feel that things are changing, suddenly the balance is tipping between them and she doesn’t even know in which direction it is tipping, hers or his.
One of his hands has risen up and cradles her face in his palm and she can feel his breath on her face and she raises her lips expectantly, seeking the kiss she hopes is coming, and his lips are just brushing against hers when the knock comes on her bedroom door and they hurriedly break apart, the Doctor practically flinging her from him as reality comes crashing back down around them.
“Rose?” It’s the voice of Adam, though who else would be knocking when the only other occupants of the TARDIS were already in this room she doesn’t know. The Doctor turns on the lamp and looks at Rose and she feels then with a sinking heart that the moment has passed between them and it will not come again this night.
She does not answer Adam, waits instead for the Doctor to rise and answer the door, naked save for his boxer briefs. Claiming her as his to the ship’s newest passenger. “Rose is sleeping,” he says to the boy on the other side of the door. His words say this, but his tone says Rose is mine.
“I was just…hungry,” Adam says.
“I’ll show you to the kitchen then and from now on, if you need something in the middle of the night, you ask me, not Rose,” the Doctor says and with one last long glance at Rose he shuts the door behind him.
Rose reaches over and turns off the light and stares into the darkness. She curses the softness within her that sought to share this adventure of travelling with the Doctor with Adam. In the moment it had seemed right, she had been thinking she wanted comfort and she hadn’t thought the Doctor would ever be interested in giving it to her, ever be interested in a full relationship with her and her eyes had strayed to the pretty genius.
But perhaps it is also the catalyst the Doctor has needed. She raises her fingers to her mouth, remembering the barely there feeling of his lips against hers. His are softer than she’d imagined, somehow she’d thought they’d be as rough as his callused hands, is delighted they are not, though she wouldn’t have cared, would have thrilled at any kiss from his lips.
She does not expect to see him again this night, has fallen into sleep when her door opens again. She tenses at first before he makes his presence known to her with a soft, “I’m back,” and then he is sliding into bed again and pulling her body to him, back to chest as it has always been. She sighs, wishing to regain the moment from before, but that moment is gone.
“Rose?” Unless… She tries not to let her heart leap at his gentle saying of her name.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“He gets one trip and then we take him back.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Then we’re agreed.”
She nods against him. When morning comes he is gone. As it has ever been.
“Come to bed, Rose,” he says and it is almost a command for she lingers a bit longer than he likes. He enjoys the look that crosses Adam’s face as he glances back and forth between Rose and himself, as Adam realizes that Rose is off limits, belongs to him; is less sure of himself when he sees the look Rose turns on him, seeing right through him, knowing what he is doing in regards to the boy, thinking he is simply marking his territory.
But she takes his hand and if he holds hers too tightly she says nothing of it. This night, for the first time, he follows her to her bed. He has slept, only slept, with her often, nightly for weeks now, but never deliberately. Always he has come to her after she’s been sleeping, when the demons will not cease their torment of his mind, never has he walked with her into her room when the lights were still on.
She looks at him steadily, wordless and expressionless, not knowing what to expect, never knowing what to expect when it comes to him. “It’s all right,” she finally says. “You can go. You’ve made your point to him.”
But he doesn’t leave, doesn’t want to leave, because she almost died and he almost lost her and he knows now that his need of her is not the only thing there is. There is also want and he wants Rose Tyler. He stares at her, moistens his lips, tries to speak, to let out something of what is pouring through his mind at speeds even his brain would not be able to calculate were he to stop and try. He opens his mouth, shuts it, feels both of his hearts pounding so fast and it’s like he’s forgotten everything he’s ever known about the opposite sex, everything he’s learned in nine hundred years of time and space. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps he should leave.
“I need to change my clothes, Doctor,” she says. She pushes him now, out into the corridor and he doesn’t want to go, wants to stay as she removes the clothing from her body, wants to help her lift the garments from her curvy frame. That choice is denied him, though she offered it once, that first night, when this thing of sharing her bed first began and he’d been too proud, too arrogant, too unwilling to admit he needed a human, wanted a human. But she's more than a human. She's Rose.
The door clicks behind him and he still has said nothing and all he can think about is the fabric sliding from her body as she takes off each garment, his hearing strong enough to hear the rustling through the door as the items fall to the floor one by one. He doesn’t even wince at the untidiness of it, thinks only that for this moment she is naked and glorious and then he hears the smooth sliding sound of satin as it caresses her skin on its way to covering her body, that beautiful body hidden away beneath some pretty gown.
And then the door opens just a bit, just those few inches that she leaves it open every night and he cannot help himself, seconds later he pushes it open, startles her, shuts it behind him. She turns, her hand in the act of reaching for the bedclothes, and his eyes burn down the length of her body, taking in the emerald green satin of what is little more than a chemise. It barely covers the tops of her thighs and as he stares at her legs he wonders that he’d never realized they were this long before.
His eyes drift up her body slowly, taking in the way the fabric skims her hips, is slightly looser at the waist and positively clings to her breasts and his hands twitch at his sides, his fingers ache to touch places he has never let himself touch. “Doctor?” she asks softly. “Did you want something?”
He wants something, wants her, wants to bury himself inside her and convince himself in ways he’s not allowed that she is still alive. His hearts beat faster, his pulses thundering in his ears and his respiratory bypass system doing him no good whatsoever. He swallows hard, his eyes feel like they are burning as he drags them up to hers, meets those warm copper pools of emotion that could bring him to his knees if he ever gave in to his want.
“Doctor?” And her tone has shifted slightly towards the irritated and somehow he finds a way to recover his speech.
“I thought tonight…I’m tired, Rose.” That’s all he’ll admit to, all he can admit to and she simply nods at him in quiet acceptance of his words.
Rose slips into the bathroom, returns to find him undressed and in her bed, his clothes folded neatly on her armchair, her own folded neatly beside his. She wonders at the domesticity of his action in doing that, wonders if he’s trying to tell her anything by his actions, frowns at herself for her silly flight of fancy when it is likely his addiction for neatening everything on his ship and nothing else.
She turns off her bedside lamp and slides into bed beside him, turns on her side. She is waiting for that moment when he will turn on his side and pull her body towards him, fit himself to her as if they were two pieces of a jigsaw, parts interlocking to hold them together, parts interlocking but never quite the right ones, never quite the ones she wants to interlock.
He doesn’t move and she wonders what is going through his head, if he is blaming himself for the fact that she almost died today, when it was her own stupidity in touching the Dalek in the first place that brought it back to full strength. And then it hits her, fully hits her for the first time that she almost died today and she begins to shake and the tears start to fall. And she wishes that she could seek comfort in the Doctor’s body tonight of all nights, that he would give her this and she would never seek it again from him if only he would.
She wants to know she is alive, wants to burn underneath his touch, wants to feel something other than this burning, empty, aching loneliness beside him. She tries to keep her noises quiet in the darkness, to not sniffle as the moisture leaks from her eyes, but she should know by now that even if she could be quiet enough to escape his sensitive hearing he’d still smell the excess saltiness extruded in her tears.
His hand is on her shoulder, but he does not pull her to him, instead pressing down and towards the bed until she lays on her back and then he reaches for her far shoulder and is gathering her into his body, so they are laying stomach to stomach, the softness of her breasts and hips pressed into the unyielding surface of his chest and pelvis. He says nonsense words to her in the dark as his hands make soothing motions on her back, stroke her hair, and one hand slides all the way to the swelling of her hip, brushing slightly across her bum.
Her sob changes in that moment to a gasp and his hand stills against her and she thinks he must have realized he’s accidently gone somewhere out of bounds, though nowhere is out of bounds to him if he would only break his self-imposed rules. “Rose.” His voice is hushed and frightened and unsure, but there is something, always something in the way he says her name, the way he imbues it with such emotion and…want. Tonight there is want in his voice.
“Doctor,” she says trying to put into those two syllables what he has managed to put into one. He pulls her tighter into him, fiercely, until there is no space at all left between their bodies and one of her thighs is trapped between his. Her fingers trail across his back and she can feel that things are changing, suddenly the balance is tipping between them and she doesn’t even know in which direction it is tipping, hers or his.
One of his hands has risen up and cradles her face in his palm and she can feel his breath on her face and she raises her lips expectantly, seeking the kiss she hopes is coming, and his lips are just brushing against hers when the knock comes on her bedroom door and they hurriedly break apart, the Doctor practically flinging her from him as reality comes crashing back down around them.
“Rose?” It’s the voice of Adam, though who else would be knocking when the only other occupants of the TARDIS were already in this room she doesn’t know. The Doctor turns on the lamp and looks at Rose and she feels then with a sinking heart that the moment has passed between them and it will not come again this night.
She does not answer Adam, waits instead for the Doctor to rise and answer the door, naked save for his boxer briefs. Claiming her as his to the ship’s newest passenger. “Rose is sleeping,” he says to the boy on the other side of the door. His words say this, but his tone says Rose is mine.
“I was just…hungry,” Adam says.
“I’ll show you to the kitchen then and from now on, if you need something in the middle of the night, you ask me, not Rose,” the Doctor says and with one last long glance at Rose he shuts the door behind him.
Rose reaches over and turns off the light and stares into the darkness. She curses the softness within her that sought to share this adventure of travelling with the Doctor with Adam. In the moment it had seemed right, she had been thinking she wanted comfort and she hadn’t thought the Doctor would ever be interested in giving it to her, ever be interested in a full relationship with her and her eyes had strayed to the pretty genius.
But perhaps it is also the catalyst the Doctor has needed. She raises her fingers to her mouth, remembering the barely there feeling of his lips against hers. His are softer than she’d imagined, somehow she’d thought they’d be as rough as his callused hands, is delighted they are not, though she wouldn’t have cared, would have thrilled at any kiss from his lips.
She does not expect to see him again this night, has fallen into sleep when her door opens again. She tenses at first before he makes his presence known to her with a soft, “I’m back,” and then he is sliding into bed again and pulling her body to him, back to chest as it has always been. She sighs, wishing to regain the moment from before, but that moment is gone.
“Rose?” Unless… She tries not to let her heart leap at his gentle saying of her name.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“He gets one trip and then we take him back.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Then we’re agreed.”
She nods against him. When morning comes he is gone. As it has ever been.
To Be Continued in Frustration: http://amberfocus.livejournal.com/38009.h
