Categories > TV > Doctor Who
A Rainy Night
0 reviewsThe Doctor is lost in 2004 London at night, it’s raining, the TARDIS is nowhere to be found, and he’s picked up by a very-familiar blonde—except, she doesn’t know who he is.
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Summary: “It was a rainy night when he came into sight standing by the road with no umbrella, no coat. So I pulled up along side and I offered him a ride. He accepted with a smile, so we drove for a while. I didn’t ask him his name, this lonely boy in the rain . . .” Or, the Doctor is lost in 2004 London at night, it’s raining, the TARDIS is nowhere to be found, and he’s picked up by a very-familiar blonde—except, she doesn’t know who he is.
Not for the first time, the Doctor cursed the fact that he’d parked the TARDIS miles away and he was lost in London—which, given the fact he’d been here several times before, was ridiculous. If he had had a companion, he would have said that Time Lords did not get lost . . . but then, the TARDIS almost never took him to his intended destination. And to top this all off, it was nearly ten o’clock at night; it was raining; and he had no coat, mac, or umbrella. His messy brown hair—complete with sideburns—was flat against his head and his clothes—a suit shirt and blue trousers—were plastered to his tall, skinny body. Red Converse splashed water around his ankles so that he was now completely wet.
Headlights from passing cars reflected on the glistening asphalt; none of them showed any sign of stopping. One finally slowed and pulled over, stopping beside the Doctor. His head snapped up to see who was driving. The first thing he noticed was that it was a yellow Volkswagon Beetle; the second was the driver: Rose Tyler.
“You need a ride?” she asked with that oh-so-familiar tongue-in-cheek grin. But this was before she had ever met him in his ninth form (and therefore his current incarnation) . . . so was he being given a second chance? After all, he, coward that he was, had never told her how he felt about her. And, this way, he wouldn’t be crossing his own timestream.
He forced himself to meet Rose’s hazel-brown eyes, felt his lips twitch in a smile. It wasn’t his usual maniac grin—far from it—but the passenger door unlocked and he slipped inside. Rainwater dripped from his hair, skin, clothes, and sneakers. “Thanks,” the Doctor said finally. “Were you going anywhere? It’s just, a young girl such as yourself shouldn’t be out late. Well, unless you were with friends or clubbing—you were, weren’t you? With that outfit, I’d say yes—unless you’re a ho— No, that’s not right. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“Yeah,” Rose said, the amusement heavy in her voice. She turned on the heater and the Doctor, eyes closed, reclined back in the seat, made a low throaty purr of contentment. The heat felt wonderful. “And for the record,” Rose went on, “not that it’s any of your business, but I was out clubbing with my mates. What’s it to you, anyway?”
The Doctor’s mind raced, scrabbling for an answer. Telling her how he really knew her would be a very bad idea, considering that she’d never met him—it was too early in her timeline. So he answered, “Just concerned, that’s all.”
“Why?” She looked over at him, and he swiftly averted his gaze. He couldn’t let her get a good look at his face. Telepathically fuzzing her mind would help, but as an extra precaution, he preferred that at least half his face be in shadow, or never meeting hers directly. What had he even been thinking, landing in 2004 London? This was bad, really, really terrible and selfish of him, and—Rassilon, had that idea been in the back of his large Time Lord brain ever since he’d first met her in the basement of the clothing store and saved her from the Autons?
He shook the thought off—because, no, it certainly had not—and retorted flippantly, “Why did you stop and pick me up?”
Rose’s eyes returned to the road, and the Doctor figured it was safe enough to look her over. He couldn’t help noticing little differences: her hair was shorter, darker at the roots; she wore more makeup than his Rose did; her body was leaner than when he’d first met her, though all the running they did sure whipped her into shape fast. Rose quipped after a few seconds of silence—other than the raindrops pelting the car, the sound of the heater, and the small car’s engines: “Do you always answer questions with questions?”
“Most of the time.” His lips curved in a proper smile—still not his usual grin, but right now he would take whatever happiness he could get—and he laced his hands behind his head, enjoying the heat and the smell labeled in his brain as Rose Tyler. “Does it annoy you?”
“Yeah. Anyway, to answer your question, you looked lonely, standing there in the rain.”
“Mmmh. There was that, yes. And I was lost,” the Doctor replied absently, turning her choice of words over in his mind. Something about it seemed familiar. Where had he heard it before? A song, a movie, a book—where? What? Yes, it had been a song performed by Heart, written by . . . Robert John “Mutt” Lange—that sounded right. How did the opening verse go? “It was a rainy night when he came into sight standing by the road with no umbrella, no coat. So I pulled up alongside and I offered him a ride. He accepted with a smile so we drove for a while. I didn’t ask him his name, this lonely boy in the rain. Fate, tell me it’s right, is this love at first sight? Please don’t make it wrong, just stay for the night. . . .” I knew it! But then . . . Oh. Ooohhh.
His brown eyes widened in horror. Oh, he was stupid, so, so stupid. He’d walked right into this one—and if there was anything about Rose he knew, it was that she wouldn’t let him leave. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Where was his respiratory bypass when he needed it? Not that he needed it right now, of course, but—oh, who was he kidding?
Panic constricted his chest when he saw that Rose was pulling into a motel’s car park. She parked the Beetle, undid the seat belt, and turned to him. “Come on, then.”
The Doctor felt the restraint slide up his shoulder; he had no recollection of undoing it. “What are we doing here?” he asked stupidly, his mind instantly jumping ahead to a bed, Rose having her way with him. Remembering that song—a number two single off the Brigade album in 1990—didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse, especially since his current situation fit the song perfectly. And, Rassilon help him, he didn’t even want to try and talk his way out of this one. Maybe the universe had given him a second chance after all.
His inner monologue had only taken a second. Rose, with a small smile, said, “We need to get you dry, and this is closer than my flat.”
“Oh.” Belatedly, he realized that made some sort of sense. Then she was gone, opening his door, and dragging him out of Mickey’s car. Rain pelted him again, chilling him to the bone, but Rose grabbed his hand and dashed across the car park to the hotel lobby’s entrance.
The receptionist barely gave them a second glance, though the Doctor noticed lines of disapproval tighten around her eyes and mouth. It only lasted a second; then her demeanor was professional once more.
They were given a room on the second floor—queen sized bed, which was good, he supposed , if they used it for what he suspected—and the Doctor, if asked, would not have been able to remember the route. All he could see was Rose as she took the lead. She stopped in front of a door, swiped the keycard, and opened the door once the light turned green. A timeline snagged the Doctor when she stepped inside and invited him in, showing him taking her up against the door. He shuddered as he stepped into the room, let Rose shut the door behind him. Without looking at her, he went and sat in the closest chair, began taking off his soaked sneakers and socks.
“You want some help with that?” Rose asked, voice sultry, and he was reminded all too vividly of what she had been like when Cassandra was inhabiting her body (and hadn’t that fueled his fantasies!).
“Ye—” He changed his mind halfway through the word. “No. No, I’m good.”
“Mmmh.” She eyed him skeptically, as if she figured he was lying. Then she grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him off the chair toward her. His momentum had him pressed fully against her; he slammed his eyes closed, inhaling sharply at the effect she had on him.
“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, yeah?” Rose’s voice had turned from sultry to a husky purr, and this Time Lord found the tone impossible to resist. So he didn’t.
Her fingers had just finished unbuttoning his shirt when the reasonable part of his brain caught up with him: You can’t do this. She’s human, remember? What if you cause a paradox? It’s too early in her timeline; she might recognize you once you’ve regenerated. Or, worse, she could end up carrying a half-Time Lord child. D’you really want to tell that to Jackie?
That last argument brought him to his senses. Not that it could happen, but if it did, Jackie would murder him. He stepped back, out of Rose’s reach, and turned his back. “I think I can manage by myself, thanks.”
Mattress springs creaked as she settled on the bed. The Doctor tried to ignore the image that popped into his head and focused on finding a place to hang up his shirt so it could dry (and trousers, too, if given the chance). No, better to hang them up now—in the closet, perhaps. At least hotels are never short on hangers.
Finally he turned back to Rose: He was stalling and he knew it. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes averted. It didn’t fool him: He suspected she’d been watching him the entire time he’d had his back turned.
The Doctor sat next to her, his hearts pounding in his chest. Of all the places he’d imagined making love to Rose Tyler . . . this wasn’t it. But at the same time . . . “All my life there’s been heartache and pain. I don’t know if I can face it again. Can’t stop now, I’ve traveled so far to change this lonely life. I want to know what love is. I want you to show me. I want to feel what love is. I know you can show me. . . .”
Rose tilted her head to look at him, and her golden hair fell back over her shoulder, exposing the skin on her neck. Hypnotized, he leaned in, trailed feather-light kisses up her neck and along her jawline. Her hazel-brown eyes closed, head lolled back to give him further access, a pleased moan spilling from her throat. “Feels good,” she murmured.
He growled a reply, his hands exploring her shoulders, torso, and curves. The next thing he knew, he was on his back with Rose straddling him. Her hands tangled in his hair as she explored his mouth; his own carpals were busy tugging her shirt out of her shorts’ waistline and over her head. It landed on the floor (he didn’t bother to check where).
Rose’s mouth suddenly broke free from his own. His eyes, already glazed over with desire, narrowed as he tried to puzzle out what she was doing. She’d leaned back on her haunches and was eyeing his half-naked body as if she was a wolf and he her prey.
“What’re you—”
The Doctor’s question ended in a strangled gasp as she smirked at him and ran her tongue from his navel to sternum, flicking around the flat nipples. He shuddered in spite of himself, hips jerking upward. A frustrated growl escaped when he realized there were still barriers between them.
Not for long, he thought, scissoring his legs and rolling them over. Now the Doctor was the one on top, hungry brown eyes raking over her body—or what he could see of it.
“Clothes. Off. Now,” he rasped in the voice he usually reserved for the Oncoming Storm, his fingers working at her bra, shorts, and knickers. Rose arched just enough for him to slide the garments off easier, arched even higher when he concentrated his oral fixations on her breasts. A timeline snagged at him; and he followed it, trailing kisses down her stomach then tasting along her right inner thigh. His teeth scraped the sensitive flesh, felt the muscles there quiver. Rose keened, her right hand tightening in his hair, the other grasping the mattress as if she needed something to keep her grounded. She wasn’t the only one: the Doctor was struggling to keep control. The fact that he was the one pleasuring her like this was making his own blood run hot—and that did not happen very often. “You got fire in your veins, burning hot, but you don’t feel the pain. Your desire is insane. You can’t stop until you do it again. But sometimes I wonder as I look in your eyes that maybe you’re thinking of some other guy. But I know, yes I know how to treat you right. That’s why you call me in the middle of the night. You say it’s urgent, so urgent. Just you wait and see how urgent our love can be.” I really have to stop listening to Foreigner and Heart. Blimey, even inside my head my gob doesn’t stop.
The Doctor managed to return his thoughts to some form of normalcy—though, really, going off topic was normal for him—and switched his attention to the inside of Rose’s left inner leg, licking, nipping, and tasting. Already he was picking up liquid traces of her desire for him. One part of his brain was pleased about that; the rest was too busy taking everything in, working out how to best pleasure her. (“Tonight—give me love with no disguise. Tonight—I see the fire in your eyes. Tonight—I wanna win the greatest prize. Tonight—so right, this night, could it be dynamite? Wait and see. If it pleases you, it pleases me.”)
He moved higher, tongue flicking into and exploring her. A low moan issued from her throat and her hips bucked reflexively.
“God . . .”
The Doctor’s eyes flicked up, met her frazzled, dilated gaze. “Doctor,” he corrected, then mentally kicked himself. Idiot!
Rose’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” His forearms, placed between her legs, widened the angle further, giving him better access to her heat. She tasted even better than he’d imagined in his wildest fantasies—and for the Doctor that was saying something.
“No, tell me,” Rose demanded, forcing him to stop his ministrations. He gave her a look that said, Really? You really want to do this now?
Not really, her eyes responded.
Good. The Doctor slowly crawled up her body, murmuring sweet nothings in Gallifreyan, too quietly for her to make out. He was so far gone that he missed the few seconds it took for her to remove the clothing covering himself. (When he did notice, it was almost a relief.) Besides, he was busy licking at the hollow of her throat, then snogging her senseless.
One of her hands—presumably her right—trailed down the hard, lean muscles of his back, then slipped between their bodies before wrapping around his hard length. The Doctor jerked back in surprise, dark brown eyes wide, a rasping mewl in the back of his throat. Oh, by Gallifrey, don’t stop. Instinctively, he jutted his lower body forward, nearly growling with frustration when he didn’t find what he was looking for. He wanted to be inside her right now; and if she kept this up much longer, he wasn’t going to last.
She stopped, much to his relief, only to nip at his clavicle. Her fingers were copping a feel at the muscles in the lower half of his body: gluteus maximus, adductor magnus, gracilis. He was gone, drowning in fire, and already so close to the edge he thought he would regenerate from desire alone. Can’t have that, now, can we? Briefly, he wondered why the TARDIS had decided to drop him off here. He’d lost Martha and had been traveling on his own for a while—long after Rose had been trapped in the parallel universe.
The Doctor’s thought-processing abilities short-circuited when—finally—he was sheathed fully in her tight heat. His senses blurred: a combination of touch, taste, smell, feel, and the sound of low moans—whether his or hers he couldn’t tell. It was so easy for him, bringing her to climax time after time that he should have known it was over for him, too. Timelines snaked around him, showing where his and Rose’s merged and formed another. Horrified at what that meant—for her and for him—he pulled back, his face suddenly unreadable. Rose, spent, was already asleep. The Doctor murmured, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” He knew what he had to do, hated himself for being in this position in the first place. She would definitely hate him, but by then he would be safe in the TARDIS and Time Vortex, well out of her reach.
He placed both index and middle fingers on her temples, closed his eyes, and found himself in Rose’s mind. Like all Time Lords, the Doctor was mildly telepathic. Normally he asked permission before entering another’s mind—unlike, say, the Master—but in this case, he had very little choice. As gently as he could, he fuzzed her memories of his appearance. Even if she couldn’t remember him directly, he wanted her to have at least some memory of their night together.
He dressed quickly, gave her one last glance before he slipped out the door, and left, hailing a cab and heading back to where he’d left the TARDIS.
-oOo-
The next—and last—time he saw her, it was January 1, 2005, and he was dying. He’d already gone back and visited his other companions, but he wanted Rose’s face to be the last one he saw before he regenerated. (In a way, regenerating was like dying. The man he was now faded to nothing and a new man replaced him, sauntered away. And afterward, he was never quite sure who he was.)
He was fairly sure he’d been quiet, standing there in the shadows, but he must have made a noise or something because Rose turned and called, “Are you all right, mate?”
His hearts clenched painfully in his chest when he saw the two-month-old babe at her side—his child, their child. She hadn’t had a child when she first traveled with him, and he wondered what she’d done with their daughter—given her up for adoption, maybe?
Rose was still looking at him like she expected an answer, so he nodded and rasped, “Yeah.” His eyes landed on his daughter’s and—respiratory bypass or not—he inhaled sharply: She had his current incarnation’s eyes. The Doctor heard himself say, “Is that your daughter?”
“Yes,” Rose replied, wariness creeping into her voice. “Why?”
He stepped closer, into the light, and saw the realization flash in her whiskey-colored eyes. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, knowing it sounded trite. “This is my fault.”
“No it’s not,” she said sharply, tucking her daughter close to her side. “It takes two.”
Just like that, the sorrow was gone from his face. “What year is this? You’re going to think I’m daft, but humor me.”
“2005,” Rose said.
The Doctor smiled, a wistful look in his eyes, as he stepped back into the shadows. “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to have a great year. And Rose . . .” He hesitated. “If you ever want to put her up for adoption . . .”
“Why would I do that?” Her entire demeanor was now that of a mother protecting her young: Everyone else—watch out.
“It’s just . . . if she’s like me, she’ll change. That’s all I can tell you; I have to go.” He could feel the regeneration energy bubbling underneath his skin and knew he had to return to the TARDIS.
And yet . . .
“All I want to do is make love to you. One night of love was all we knew. Yeah. All night long . . .”
Not for the first time, the Doctor cursed the fact that he’d parked the TARDIS miles away and he was lost in London—which, given the fact he’d been here several times before, was ridiculous. If he had had a companion, he would have said that Time Lords did not get lost . . . but then, the TARDIS almost never took him to his intended destination. And to top this all off, it was nearly ten o’clock at night; it was raining; and he had no coat, mac, or umbrella. His messy brown hair—complete with sideburns—was flat against his head and his clothes—a suit shirt and blue trousers—were plastered to his tall, skinny body. Red Converse splashed water around his ankles so that he was now completely wet.
Headlights from passing cars reflected on the glistening asphalt; none of them showed any sign of stopping. One finally slowed and pulled over, stopping beside the Doctor. His head snapped up to see who was driving. The first thing he noticed was that it was a yellow Volkswagon Beetle; the second was the driver: Rose Tyler.
“You need a ride?” she asked with that oh-so-familiar tongue-in-cheek grin. But this was before she had ever met him in his ninth form (and therefore his current incarnation) . . . so was he being given a second chance? After all, he, coward that he was, had never told her how he felt about her. And, this way, he wouldn’t be crossing his own timestream.
He forced himself to meet Rose’s hazel-brown eyes, felt his lips twitch in a smile. It wasn’t his usual maniac grin—far from it—but the passenger door unlocked and he slipped inside. Rainwater dripped from his hair, skin, clothes, and sneakers. “Thanks,” the Doctor said finally. “Were you going anywhere? It’s just, a young girl such as yourself shouldn’t be out late. Well, unless you were with friends or clubbing—you were, weren’t you? With that outfit, I’d say yes—unless you’re a ho— No, that’s not right. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“Yeah,” Rose said, the amusement heavy in her voice. She turned on the heater and the Doctor, eyes closed, reclined back in the seat, made a low throaty purr of contentment. The heat felt wonderful. “And for the record,” Rose went on, “not that it’s any of your business, but I was out clubbing with my mates. What’s it to you, anyway?”
The Doctor’s mind raced, scrabbling for an answer. Telling her how he really knew her would be a very bad idea, considering that she’d never met him—it was too early in her timeline. So he answered, “Just concerned, that’s all.”
“Why?” She looked over at him, and he swiftly averted his gaze. He couldn’t let her get a good look at his face. Telepathically fuzzing her mind would help, but as an extra precaution, he preferred that at least half his face be in shadow, or never meeting hers directly. What had he even been thinking, landing in 2004 London? This was bad, really, really terrible and selfish of him, and—Rassilon, had that idea been in the back of his large Time Lord brain ever since he’d first met her in the basement of the clothing store and saved her from the Autons?
He shook the thought off—because, no, it certainly had not—and retorted flippantly, “Why did you stop and pick me up?”
Rose’s eyes returned to the road, and the Doctor figured it was safe enough to look her over. He couldn’t help noticing little differences: her hair was shorter, darker at the roots; she wore more makeup than his Rose did; her body was leaner than when he’d first met her, though all the running they did sure whipped her into shape fast. Rose quipped after a few seconds of silence—other than the raindrops pelting the car, the sound of the heater, and the small car’s engines: “Do you always answer questions with questions?”
“Most of the time.” His lips curved in a proper smile—still not his usual grin, but right now he would take whatever happiness he could get—and he laced his hands behind his head, enjoying the heat and the smell labeled in his brain as Rose Tyler. “Does it annoy you?”
“Yeah. Anyway, to answer your question, you looked lonely, standing there in the rain.”
“Mmmh. There was that, yes. And I was lost,” the Doctor replied absently, turning her choice of words over in his mind. Something about it seemed familiar. Where had he heard it before? A song, a movie, a book—where? What? Yes, it had been a song performed by Heart, written by . . . Robert John “Mutt” Lange—that sounded right. How did the opening verse go? “It was a rainy night when he came into sight standing by the road with no umbrella, no coat. So I pulled up alongside and I offered him a ride. He accepted with a smile so we drove for a while. I didn’t ask him his name, this lonely boy in the rain. Fate, tell me it’s right, is this love at first sight? Please don’t make it wrong, just stay for the night. . . .” I knew it! But then . . . Oh. Ooohhh.
His brown eyes widened in horror. Oh, he was stupid, so, so stupid. He’d walked right into this one—and if there was anything about Rose he knew, it was that she wouldn’t let him leave. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Where was his respiratory bypass when he needed it? Not that he needed it right now, of course, but—oh, who was he kidding?
Panic constricted his chest when he saw that Rose was pulling into a motel’s car park. She parked the Beetle, undid the seat belt, and turned to him. “Come on, then.”
The Doctor felt the restraint slide up his shoulder; he had no recollection of undoing it. “What are we doing here?” he asked stupidly, his mind instantly jumping ahead to a bed, Rose having her way with him. Remembering that song—a number two single off the Brigade album in 1990—didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse, especially since his current situation fit the song perfectly. And, Rassilon help him, he didn’t even want to try and talk his way out of this one. Maybe the universe had given him a second chance after all.
His inner monologue had only taken a second. Rose, with a small smile, said, “We need to get you dry, and this is closer than my flat.”
“Oh.” Belatedly, he realized that made some sort of sense. Then she was gone, opening his door, and dragging him out of Mickey’s car. Rain pelted him again, chilling him to the bone, but Rose grabbed his hand and dashed across the car park to the hotel lobby’s entrance.
The receptionist barely gave them a second glance, though the Doctor noticed lines of disapproval tighten around her eyes and mouth. It only lasted a second; then her demeanor was professional once more.
They were given a room on the second floor—queen sized bed, which was good, he supposed , if they used it for what he suspected—and the Doctor, if asked, would not have been able to remember the route. All he could see was Rose as she took the lead. She stopped in front of a door, swiped the keycard, and opened the door once the light turned green. A timeline snagged the Doctor when she stepped inside and invited him in, showing him taking her up against the door. He shuddered as he stepped into the room, let Rose shut the door behind him. Without looking at her, he went and sat in the closest chair, began taking off his soaked sneakers and socks.
“You want some help with that?” Rose asked, voice sultry, and he was reminded all too vividly of what she had been like when Cassandra was inhabiting her body (and hadn’t that fueled his fantasies!).
“Ye—” He changed his mind halfway through the word. “No. No, I’m good.”
“Mmmh.” She eyed him skeptically, as if she figured he was lying. Then she grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him off the chair toward her. His momentum had him pressed fully against her; he slammed his eyes closed, inhaling sharply at the effect she had on him.
“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, yeah?” Rose’s voice had turned from sultry to a husky purr, and this Time Lord found the tone impossible to resist. So he didn’t.
Her fingers had just finished unbuttoning his shirt when the reasonable part of his brain caught up with him: You can’t do this. She’s human, remember? What if you cause a paradox? It’s too early in her timeline; she might recognize you once you’ve regenerated. Or, worse, she could end up carrying a half-Time Lord child. D’you really want to tell that to Jackie?
That last argument brought him to his senses. Not that it could happen, but if it did, Jackie would murder him. He stepped back, out of Rose’s reach, and turned his back. “I think I can manage by myself, thanks.”
Mattress springs creaked as she settled on the bed. The Doctor tried to ignore the image that popped into his head and focused on finding a place to hang up his shirt so it could dry (and trousers, too, if given the chance). No, better to hang them up now—in the closet, perhaps. At least hotels are never short on hangers.
Finally he turned back to Rose: He was stalling and he knew it. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes averted. It didn’t fool him: He suspected she’d been watching him the entire time he’d had his back turned.
The Doctor sat next to her, his hearts pounding in his chest. Of all the places he’d imagined making love to Rose Tyler . . . this wasn’t it. But at the same time . . . “All my life there’s been heartache and pain. I don’t know if I can face it again. Can’t stop now, I’ve traveled so far to change this lonely life. I want to know what love is. I want you to show me. I want to feel what love is. I know you can show me. . . .”
Rose tilted her head to look at him, and her golden hair fell back over her shoulder, exposing the skin on her neck. Hypnotized, he leaned in, trailed feather-light kisses up her neck and along her jawline. Her hazel-brown eyes closed, head lolled back to give him further access, a pleased moan spilling from her throat. “Feels good,” she murmured.
He growled a reply, his hands exploring her shoulders, torso, and curves. The next thing he knew, he was on his back with Rose straddling him. Her hands tangled in his hair as she explored his mouth; his own carpals were busy tugging her shirt out of her shorts’ waistline and over her head. It landed on the floor (he didn’t bother to check where).
Rose’s mouth suddenly broke free from his own. His eyes, already glazed over with desire, narrowed as he tried to puzzle out what she was doing. She’d leaned back on her haunches and was eyeing his half-naked body as if she was a wolf and he her prey.
“What’re you—”
The Doctor’s question ended in a strangled gasp as she smirked at him and ran her tongue from his navel to sternum, flicking around the flat nipples. He shuddered in spite of himself, hips jerking upward. A frustrated growl escaped when he realized there were still barriers between them.
Not for long, he thought, scissoring his legs and rolling them over. Now the Doctor was the one on top, hungry brown eyes raking over her body—or what he could see of it.
“Clothes. Off. Now,” he rasped in the voice he usually reserved for the Oncoming Storm, his fingers working at her bra, shorts, and knickers. Rose arched just enough for him to slide the garments off easier, arched even higher when he concentrated his oral fixations on her breasts. A timeline snagged at him; and he followed it, trailing kisses down her stomach then tasting along her right inner thigh. His teeth scraped the sensitive flesh, felt the muscles there quiver. Rose keened, her right hand tightening in his hair, the other grasping the mattress as if she needed something to keep her grounded. She wasn’t the only one: the Doctor was struggling to keep control. The fact that he was the one pleasuring her like this was making his own blood run hot—and that did not happen very often. “You got fire in your veins, burning hot, but you don’t feel the pain. Your desire is insane. You can’t stop until you do it again. But sometimes I wonder as I look in your eyes that maybe you’re thinking of some other guy. But I know, yes I know how to treat you right. That’s why you call me in the middle of the night. You say it’s urgent, so urgent. Just you wait and see how urgent our love can be.” I really have to stop listening to Foreigner and Heart. Blimey, even inside my head my gob doesn’t stop.
The Doctor managed to return his thoughts to some form of normalcy—though, really, going off topic was normal for him—and switched his attention to the inside of Rose’s left inner leg, licking, nipping, and tasting. Already he was picking up liquid traces of her desire for him. One part of his brain was pleased about that; the rest was too busy taking everything in, working out how to best pleasure her. (“Tonight—give me love with no disguise. Tonight—I see the fire in your eyes. Tonight—I wanna win the greatest prize. Tonight—so right, this night, could it be dynamite? Wait and see. If it pleases you, it pleases me.”)
He moved higher, tongue flicking into and exploring her. A low moan issued from her throat and her hips bucked reflexively.
“God . . .”
The Doctor’s eyes flicked up, met her frazzled, dilated gaze. “Doctor,” he corrected, then mentally kicked himself. Idiot!
Rose’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” His forearms, placed between her legs, widened the angle further, giving him better access to her heat. She tasted even better than he’d imagined in his wildest fantasies—and for the Doctor that was saying something.
“No, tell me,” Rose demanded, forcing him to stop his ministrations. He gave her a look that said, Really? You really want to do this now?
Not really, her eyes responded.
Good. The Doctor slowly crawled up her body, murmuring sweet nothings in Gallifreyan, too quietly for her to make out. He was so far gone that he missed the few seconds it took for her to remove the clothing covering himself. (When he did notice, it was almost a relief.) Besides, he was busy licking at the hollow of her throat, then snogging her senseless.
One of her hands—presumably her right—trailed down the hard, lean muscles of his back, then slipped between their bodies before wrapping around his hard length. The Doctor jerked back in surprise, dark brown eyes wide, a rasping mewl in the back of his throat. Oh, by Gallifrey, don’t stop. Instinctively, he jutted his lower body forward, nearly growling with frustration when he didn’t find what he was looking for. He wanted to be inside her right now; and if she kept this up much longer, he wasn’t going to last.
She stopped, much to his relief, only to nip at his clavicle. Her fingers were copping a feel at the muscles in the lower half of his body: gluteus maximus, adductor magnus, gracilis. He was gone, drowning in fire, and already so close to the edge he thought he would regenerate from desire alone. Can’t have that, now, can we? Briefly, he wondered why the TARDIS had decided to drop him off here. He’d lost Martha and had been traveling on his own for a while—long after Rose had been trapped in the parallel universe.
The Doctor’s thought-processing abilities short-circuited when—finally—he was sheathed fully in her tight heat. His senses blurred: a combination of touch, taste, smell, feel, and the sound of low moans—whether his or hers he couldn’t tell. It was so easy for him, bringing her to climax time after time that he should have known it was over for him, too. Timelines snaked around him, showing where his and Rose’s merged and formed another. Horrified at what that meant—for her and for him—he pulled back, his face suddenly unreadable. Rose, spent, was already asleep. The Doctor murmured, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” He knew what he had to do, hated himself for being in this position in the first place. She would definitely hate him, but by then he would be safe in the TARDIS and Time Vortex, well out of her reach.
He placed both index and middle fingers on her temples, closed his eyes, and found himself in Rose’s mind. Like all Time Lords, the Doctor was mildly telepathic. Normally he asked permission before entering another’s mind—unlike, say, the Master—but in this case, he had very little choice. As gently as he could, he fuzzed her memories of his appearance. Even if she couldn’t remember him directly, he wanted her to have at least some memory of their night together.
He dressed quickly, gave her one last glance before he slipped out the door, and left, hailing a cab and heading back to where he’d left the TARDIS.
-oOo-
The next—and last—time he saw her, it was January 1, 2005, and he was dying. He’d already gone back and visited his other companions, but he wanted Rose’s face to be the last one he saw before he regenerated. (In a way, regenerating was like dying. The man he was now faded to nothing and a new man replaced him, sauntered away. And afterward, he was never quite sure who he was.)
He was fairly sure he’d been quiet, standing there in the shadows, but he must have made a noise or something because Rose turned and called, “Are you all right, mate?”
His hearts clenched painfully in his chest when he saw the two-month-old babe at her side—his child, their child. She hadn’t had a child when she first traveled with him, and he wondered what she’d done with their daughter—given her up for adoption, maybe?
Rose was still looking at him like she expected an answer, so he nodded and rasped, “Yeah.” His eyes landed on his daughter’s and—respiratory bypass or not—he inhaled sharply: She had his current incarnation’s eyes. The Doctor heard himself say, “Is that your daughter?”
“Yes,” Rose replied, wariness creeping into her voice. “Why?”
He stepped closer, into the light, and saw the realization flash in her whiskey-colored eyes. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, knowing it sounded trite. “This is my fault.”
“No it’s not,” she said sharply, tucking her daughter close to her side. “It takes two.”
Just like that, the sorrow was gone from his face. “What year is this? You’re going to think I’m daft, but humor me.”
“2005,” Rose said.
The Doctor smiled, a wistful look in his eyes, as he stepped back into the shadows. “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to have a great year. And Rose . . .” He hesitated. “If you ever want to put her up for adoption . . .”
“Why would I do that?” Her entire demeanor was now that of a mother protecting her young: Everyone else—watch out.
“It’s just . . . if she’s like me, she’ll change. That’s all I can tell you; I have to go.” He could feel the regeneration energy bubbling underneath his skin and knew he had to return to the TARDIS.
And yet . . .
“All I want to do is make love to you. One night of love was all we knew. Yeah. All night long . . .”
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