Nina muses...

Relict (13/16?, DW, 9/J/R, Adult - note that I said adult, right? I'm not kidding)

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 02:35:28 GMT

Chapter Thirteen - Diffusion

The cool fingertips brushing the channel of his spine made him moan into the kiss that was demanding all his attention, and he might almost have been embarrassed by the shiver that passed over his skin, his hips arching in involuntary response against the taut body beneath him, had the loss of control not felt so good. Smooth skin, hard muscles, lips, tongue, teeth, cock, long-fingered hands, a faint rasp of hair… all human-like, all familiar, and yet somehow new. He stretched one hand to cradle the vaulted skull, the other sliding up the lean thigh that rose against his hip, and he felt a flush of warmth chased by a coolness that was both erotic and off-putting. He was too aware of the tension underneath, around him, and it seemed nothing he did could ease it.

Catching his breath, Jack lifted his head, glimpsing the tightness between the Doctor’s eyebrows before the mercurial eyes opened, encouragingly dilated, a little smoky, a little too intense. “Relax,” Jack whispered comfortingly, his thumb sliding along the inner blade of a hipbone. “I know what I’m doing.”

Eyes rolled at his broad grin, and Jack felt himself regaining a little control. He felt a little give in the tension, the body beneath him settling into the bed, rather than on it, and a distinct throb against his belly.

Two or three kisses had been enough for him to get them both naked, and he’d shown amazing restraint, Jack thought, not to go down on the Doctor immediately, but to ease him fully onto the bed. He’d been surprised that the Doctor was letting him take the lead, without being exactly passive, but Jack had also thought being on top was at least moderate insurance against the Time Lord bolting unexpectedly. He was well aware that the Doctor was aroused, if not yet as achingly hard as Jack was himself, and he wondered if the slower metabolism was responsible for the slower response, but the uneasiness rubbing against the edges of his mind, an unsteady ebb and flow, suggested something else.

“Turn over,” Jack half-ordered, half-suggested, as he pushed up on his hands and knees over the Doctor. The sudden wave of uncertainty made him nauseous, and he dropped his head, taking a deep breath as the reaction drained away. A second breath cleansed away the unpleasant sensation, and he raised his head.

“I’m sorry, Jack.” The Doctor’s apology was genuine, almost that of a little boy caught red-handed in a very bad deed, his strong face transparently reflecting regret and concern. “This is a bad idea.”

“No, no, no.” Jack shook his head, holding up a hand. “It’s not. And it’s not what you think. Just trust me, okay? Turn over.”

The Doctor looked at him warily, but actually did what he asked, to Jack’s considerable amazement and relief.

“I’m starting to get a little bit more of this.” His conversational tone helped Jack keep himself steady as he carefully positioned himself on his knees astride the narrow hips as the Doctor folded his arms beneath the pillow. His eyes were closed as he turned his head to the side, and Jack could feel the tension rising around him again. He reached out to put his hands on the scarred shoulder blades, rubbing firmly but gently across bunched muscles. “You’ve got some pretty significant psi powers — no surprise there — and they’re mixed up with your libido somehow. That natural for your people?”

There was a soft grunt as Jack’s palms slid down firmly on either side of the spine, bumping over contracted muscles almost as hard as the ribs they supported. “Hard to say. Lot of cultural effort put into developing the mental side of things. Sexual reproduction wasn’t encouraged, too much left up to chance. Kind of fell out of favour. Unfgh.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” Jack observed, and was pleasantly surprised by the snort from beneath him.

“No kidding. Bigger bunch of uptight, pompous aristo-bureaucrats you’ve never met.”

Jack grinned, leaning down to brush his lips across a sharp cheekbone as his hands came up to the nape of the Doctor’s neck, thumbs probing the bunches of muscles at the base of the skull. A soft moan from the Doctor, a subtle press of his body into the mattress, and a burst of pleasure spilled over Jack like warm water, provoking a little moan in echo. He leaned down to kiss the knot at the top of the Doctor’s spine and whisper, “So, something tells me you were a bit of a rebel.”

“A bit,” conceded the Doctor, and Jack could tell his eyes were twinkling even when they were closed. “Still, never really one for sex, me, until…”

“Until Rose?”

“Until my wife.”

Jack’s hands stilled for a brief moment in surprise, but he kept kneading, watching the subtle shadow of loss pass over the Doctor’s face.

“After she was gone, I had other things to think about. Mostly.”

Jack was uncertain whether to smile at that well-timed adverbial addition, but he also had no intention of letting the Doctor slip back into the comparative safety of grief. He was just about to prompt him when more information was volunteered, in a combination of amazement and amusement.

“Bloody evolutionary imperatives — managed to wipe out half o’ creation in the Time War, ‘n’ woke up hard.”

Jack laughed, stretching to reach a small bottle of oil on the bedside cabinet and rubbed a bit between his palms. “Makes sense.” He brought his hands slowly and firmly down on either side of the spine, thumbs pressing down against the tailbone in a way he knew was pleasurable in most vertebrates, and the doubt worrying at the edges of his mind receded a little.

“'S not why, Jack,” he said, turning his head to rest his forehead against the pillow as he lifted his shoulders slightly into the hard push of Jack’s palms.

“Why what?” Jack wasn’t sure if he’d lost track of the conversation, but kept his voice low and encouraging.

“Rose.” The name trailed off into a moan as Jack found the spot at the base of his spine.

Jack raised an eyebrow and was amused when the Doctor seemed to know that, even with his eyes closed and his head turned away.

“No, I mean it, Jack. She was just —” He took a deep breath, then released it in a gust, half-sigh, half-huff. “A pain in the arse, really. But quick. And brave.”

“And very cute.”

The Doctor made a soft growl into the pillow, muttering. “Didn’t even notice she was female until our second stop.”

“Oh, God, why can I soooo believe that?” Jack chuckled, resting his forehead against the back of the Doctor’s head as he leaned forward to work the nape of his neck.

The Doctor growled again, but Jack could feel the amusement. The vague miasma of unease had receded further from his mind, and when he found a particularly tough knot with his thumbs and worked at it, a salmon-tinted warmth suffused him.

“Relax,” he encouraged by the syneaesthetic response, falling into a slow, rocking rhythm that he accompanied with a soft, soothing voice. “I understand. Lots of power, not a lot of practice using it. Makes perfect sense.”

The Doctor grunted softly, relaxing into the bed enough to embrace the pillow beneath his head, and Jack felt a slight heat at the base of his spine, a whisper along his nerve endings that was tentative, but definitely pleasurable.

“That explains the Tirsuan,” he continued, letting his thigh muscles relax enough that he was almost sitting on the back of the Doctor’s thighs, weight resting on his own heels. “Their dominant culture’s developed some really strong psi disciplines. Almost more like poetry or dance than pure martial art. The Time Agency used some of them as a basis for their psi training.” He lightened his stroke into a caress, up over the shoulderblades, fingertips skimming the burn scar.

The Doctor tensed beneath him again, and Jack made a soothing sound, bending down to brush his lips across the disfigurement. The scar tissue was obscenely smooth. “Don’t,” he said softly, then lifted his head, resuming his slow rhythm. “I got top marks in psi training. Just so you know.”

The Doctor squirmed a little as Jack moved his hands along the stripes of scars.

“You don’t have to tell me about these, not unless you want to. But don’t think they’re going to put me off, either. They’re not ugly. Not that way, anyway.” His fingertips lightened as they traced over the rise and curve of the Doctor’s bum, and he could see and, somehow, feel the slight shiver of pleasure in the caress. He bowed down to brush a kiss in the small of the back, following the spine upward. As he moved, his erection nudged between the taut buttocks, and he felt the flare of uncertainty in his mind. “No,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the unburned shoulder. “Don’t.” He kissed the base of the skull, his lips brushing across soft hair and warm skin. “Stop.” He nuzzled the sensitive hollow behind one big ear, smiling as its soft edge brushed his cheek. “Really powerful words. Use any one of ‘em, and pfft!, like magic, I’ll stop.”

He could feel the relaxation coming in stages, like rusty cogs jerking into movement, and Jack eased himself down on his hip and elbow on the bed, still half on top of him in a loose embrace, arm across shoulders, knee across thighs. He could feel the resistance still battling, it seemed, with itself rather than the arousal, banked down beneath it. Jack gazed at the strong profile, the cheekbones casting shadows softened by the glowing light, and he kept up the firm rub of his thumb at the top of the spine.

“You’ve had such a tight grip on things for so long, you’re afraid if you let go, it’ll all fly apart.” He kept his voice low and rhythmic, soothing, even though his own desire gave his words a seductive tone. “So let it.”

The eyes that turned to him had sudden blues that he didn’t think he’d ever seen. Like interminable summer twilights from his childhood, flashing with heat lightning and the native fireflies. When the Doctor spoke, it was with a warning tone. “I can’t ask that, Jack.”

“You don’t have to ask.” Jack echoed his earlier offer, and his hand firmly urged the Doctor to turn toward him. The hesitation, rather than resistance, encouraged him, and he moved closer, a light embrace as he brushed lips to lips. He already knew the Time Lord could kiss, and the receptive opening of the mouth, the cool dart of a tongue brought him closer. He wound his ankle around the Doctor’s as he deepened the kiss, his hand smoothing down the curve of the spine to the rise of the round bum. A soft moan gasped into his mouth, a little tension easing in the body against his, and Jack felt the irritation against his mind flow suddenly into a silken slip, like cool water against heated skin.

“Oooh, that’s good,” he murmured, deep in his chest, and the Doctor moaned in harmony, the velvet rasp of his tongue against Jack’s echoing against his mind. “I’ll take more of that.” Jack shivered, pushing closer and was slightly surprised at the way he found himself on top of the Doctor again, not quite sure whether it was his own aggression or the Doctor’s submission. Not that he cared, given the silver-sweet-slippery sensation sliding over his skin, or the long fingers sliding through his hair, sending trills of pleasure along his nervous system.

Jack slid his lips over the lifting chin, his teeth grazing the pulse down the long, arched throat. His hands explored the thin, but nonetheless sharply-defined muscles of the torso beneath him as his mouth moved down. The synaesthetic surges receded slightly, lapping at his mind like a gentle surf, and as he followed the fine line of nearly invisible hair down from the sharp sternum, he smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” asked the Doctor softly, his fingers combing through Jack’s hair, loosening his carefully tousled style with a gentle, massaging motion that made Jack want to purr.

Jack traced the neat indentation with a fingertip and he grinned up at the Doctor. “Still got a belly-button.”

“Yeah,” he drawled lazily. “You’ve still got an appendix.”

Jack grinned and turned almost casually to brush a kiss against the erection rising by his cheek. The cool-warm velvet sensation against his lips seemed to flow over his entire skin, and he moaned, slipping down to take him in his mouth. The taut body went rigid for a moment, but Jack’s firm hands along the long thighs, pushing them back, seemed to ease him.

He loved this, always had, never understood why it ever was considered submissive or an obligation by anyone in any time, although his recent trip to 1940s Earth had reminded him of the prejudice with a vengeance. At this moment, the pleasure of the warm, pulsing life in his mouth was almost overwhelmingly amplified by his awareness of the vulnerability of the powerful creature who was trusting him. The lapping surf grew more restless, as if a storm were coming, and Jack reached for a hand, lacing their fingers with an encouraging squeeze. The surging wave seemed to roll him over, making him lose his bearings for a moment, and Jack pulled back slowly, smiling approvingly at the increased length. He let his tongue linger at the tip before releasing it with a soft kiss. He expected to look up into dark blue eyes; they were clear in his head, but instead, he saw a long, arched throat and tense jaw.

“Hey,” he said softly, squeezing a thigh as he lifted up slightly, and he got the gaze he had anticipated, and swift breath he hadn’t. “Listen. Just let go. Let’s get the edge off, and then we can work on style points, how’s that?”

For a moment, Jack expected resistance, but he felt the waves buffeting at him, the stormy blue eyes flashing lightning, but anchoring him. He fought the instinct to close his eyes, holding that intense gaze as he sank down again, changing the angle, his free hand coming up to cradle the balls that nestled closer to the Doctor’s body than Jack was used to in a mammalian species. He was aware that the lower body temperature undoubtedly had something to do with the evolutionary differential, but the overwhelming majority of his consciousness was filled with soft skin, a satisfying weight, and the polyrhythm of a double pulse against his palm and tongue. He turned his hand, stretching his fingers to stroke, then rub against warmer, smoother skin underneath, and the flicker of sandy eyelashes gave him a surge of pleasure that made Jack moan, pushing against the bed with hips and toes for leverage. The fingers around his tightened, the pulse tripped asymmetrically, and Jack relaxed his throat…

***

Rose tightened her hands on the pillow crushed beneath her head and opened one reluctant eye to read the red digits of the alarm clock that glowed softly in the near dark. Even now, it took a moment or two for her to realize it wasn’t the clock radio she’d had since she was eleven that was proclaiming 3:27, but the mock version that the TARDIS had provided when she was unable to read the water clock and kept forgetting to wind the old-fashioned brass alarm clock with the jangling bells on top.

She felt sticky and hot from crying. She was still curled up on top of the duvet, her cheeks flushed and tight from dried tears, and she had a bit of a headache, but as she moved her knees away from her breasts, she also realized she was horny as hell. Clenching her teeth on a curse, she punched the pillow as she sat up, running her hand through hair she expected to be tangled, but instead it ran through her fingers like water. She shivered subtly at the sensual sensation and swung her legs around to the edge of the bed, almost irritated by the little twinge of pleasure as she pushed up onto her feet. Snatching clean underthings from her dresser, she went into the adjoining bathroom, turning on the light to a low glow. She took a phial of bath oil from the package Liane had put together for her and started the bath. As she leaned over to turn on the tap, she felt a little nauseous — probably because she hadn’t eaten in hours, she thought crossly — and she sat down on the edge of the tub, fiddling with the little glass stopper for a moment before setting the bottle on the rim and reaching for the vanilla candle that sat on the glass shelf on the tile wall. A twinge in the muscles of her back seemed inappropriately connected to a pulse of arousal, and she sent spiteful thoughts at the Doctor for running her ragged and then sending her to bed like she was a child.

***

The flash throughout his body was surprising enough to make Jack gasp, choke a little, even as it evaporated immediately… as if all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked away, stealing the fire and leaving only the afterthoughts of sparks dancing across his skin, tantalizingly ambivalent as to pain or pleasure. An inordinate wave of relief, like the euphoric cessation of torment, rolled over him, and he was still trying to find his balance when he found himself on his hands and knees, his breathing halfway between cough and wheeze, a pleasingly bitter-salt taste on his lips and tongue.

The Doctor had curled his long legs beneath him, sitting up so that he could rub Jack’s back soothingly. “Here,” he said gently, a hand under Jack’s chest pushing him into a more upright position. “Try through your nose.”

Jack sat back on his heels, using one good cough to clear his airway, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lips quirking in a wry smile. “That went well.”

“I’m sorry, Jack,” the Doctor said quietly, his face tired, resigned.

“Hey, nothing to be sorry for,” said Jack with a genuine grin, noting that despite release and resignation, the Doctor was still aroused. “Wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad.” He cleared his throat, then rose up on his knees to move a little closer. “Sometimes it takes a little while to get the rhythm with a new partner, especially one who’s trying to hold back.” He put his arm around the Doctor’s shoulders, his hand exploring the tense jawline as he watched his thumb brush across lips swollen from kissing and, if he was not mistaken — and he rarely was in situations of this sort — a little biting. Jack smiled a little, lifting his eyes to the grey-blue gaze. “We know we can dance together. We’ll get there. And you know, you taste fantastic.”

Jack leaned forward, and to his amazement, he was met by the Doctor’s kiss. With a moan of pleasure, he slid his hands across scarred, oiled skin as the Doctor bore him back against the bed, legs and tongues tangling. After a moment of unexpected disorientation, Jack relaxed into the bed, opening his legs and mouth in welcome.

***

The throaty moan was pleasure in itself, her voice vibrating through her body as she arched in the warm, foamy water, hands folded tightly between her knees. She had refused to touch herself, having petulantly and unreasonably decided to refuse to acknowledge the arousal she well knew was the Doctor’s fault, but it seemed unnecessary as her skin seemed alive with some sort of…warm hum…

***

“What do you like, Jack?”

The words were clear and clean, stinging like mint on his tongue, ringing like crystal in his ears, but he missed the resonance of the deep voice in the body against his…

“What do you want?”

His own moan rose to meet the near-growl of the last word against his throat as sharp teeth grazed the stubbled arch of his throat, and Jack’s fingers tightened on the broad shoulders as he took a deep breath, fighting against coming at the very sound of the voice he had inarticulately desired. Before he had fully formed the thought in his brain, large hands were sweeping firmly up his thighs and hips until the long thumbs brushed his nipples and weight was shifted down into his pelvis as the Doctor lifted his head.

“Wow!” Jack gasped, struck anew by the sharp planes and angles of the Doctor’s face, accentuated by the low light, contrasted to the full softness of his parted lips and the inhuman metallic gleam of his painfully blue eyes.

But then that hesitant, little-boy-lost look was so very human as he brought a hand up to run his fingers through Jack’s thick hair, tightening firmly, just the way he liked. “It doesn’t feel like cheating?” he asked, even as he rocked against Jack slowly, skin against skin, pulse against throb in a firm, but tantalizing caress.

Jack smiled, reaching up to frame the hard face in gentle hands. “Having a partner that knows exactly what you want, even before you do? Are you kidding?” His voice dropped, and he purred, “Not if you mean it,” before bringing him down for another kiss.

***

Her slick fingers slipped on the porcelain as she grabbed the side of the tub to pull herself into more of a sitting position, the pain of jamming her little finger perfect for her mood. Her skin felt like it was glowing, and while frustration with the Doctor still nagged at her, she couldn’t quite bring herself to hurry things along.

Bastard, she thought, remembering the eerie glow of his eyes in the dusky temple, the resonance of his voice as he flirted with the priestesses. He could be so goofy sometimes, but when that switch flicked on behind the eyes and the focus was there… She shivered, aware of the warm water lapping at her tightening nipples, and she pulled her knees closer to her chest, wrapping her arms around them protectively.

***

Jack chuckled into their kiss as their legs tangled, knees knocking, and he took the opportunity to shift their weight, rolling on top with a playful nip to the shoulder as his fingers crept up the prominent ribs like stairsteps.

“’M not ticklish, Jack,” murmured the Doctor, nuzzling the tender place between jaw and ear where Jack was most assuredly ticklish.

Jack shivered, instinctively turning his head to protect himself at the same time his fingers found a spot between ribs and shoulder blade that provoked a flash of amused crackling like copper foil crinkling before he found himself under attack. They rolled over like two puppies, nuzzling, nipping, fingers and hands exploring, and Jack burst out laughing as they nearly went over the side of the bed, rescued by some instinctive acrobatic move executed in perfect synchronization, if something less than grace.

“See? Good timing,” declared Jack, sliding his body along the hard planes of the Doctor’s, his hand between them to protect and caress. He had barely thought of it when the Doctor’s hand joined his, and he smiled, bowing his head to capture a kiss before he stopped suddenly. “Wait. You’re not going to seize if we’re in each other’s heads?” he asked, a little breathless from the collision of desire and fear.

The Doctor shook his head against the pillows, his eyes seeming to capture the light. “Nah. The TARDIS has beefed up the psychic shielding since that little incident. And anyway, I’d have to really go poking around in your head for that to happen again. Believe me, I don’t have to work very hard to know what you want.”

Jack grinned, moving his hand up to rub his thumb around the crowns of their cocks together, provoking a pleasurable shiver from them both. “Well — as far as I know, anyway — I’ve got nothing to hide,” he declared, bending down to catch that deferred kiss.

***

Rose made a face at the pruniness of her fingertips and stretched a foot out to flip the stopper out of the tub, pushing up to her feet with a tired sigh. She wrapped herself in a plush white robe, even more lush than usual against her sensitive skin, it seemed, and ran a comb through her hair before returning to her bed. A tinge of uneasiness ran through her arousal, and she slid under the duvet, pulling the big pillow into her arms beneath her head. Her body felt heavy and warm, and part of her wanted to unwind, let go, just feel the pleasure suffusing her. But her anger had dulled to remote feeling of impending loss that reminded her too much of a cold, drafty church and emotions stripped raw from grief.

***

Jack felt his skin tingling as if before a thunderstorm, the air seeming heavy with humidity and electricity, and he wanted nothing more than to give in, roll under the waves of power he felt gathering beneath and around him. Keep it fun, he told himself firmly, even as he shivered at the teeth lightly skimming his jugular.

His fingers dug into the sharp shoulders, and he turned his head to echo the caress. The stubbled skin was salty and still slightly tangy from the phosophorescent air at Zarua, and the double pulse felt swift and shallow, close to the skin beneath his tongue. He exhaled in a low moan, shifting his weight, slipping aside and pushing down, pressing the Doctor down so he could climb over him, his tongue following, seeking out the traces of sweat and pheromones and the spark of life. The undulating texture of skin and scar beneath his fingers, against his nipples and belly and cock, was stimulating, almost unbearably seductive. He lowered himself to feel more, limbs straining, fingers digging into the collarbones he pushed down into the bed, his teeth aching as they followed the curve of neck and throat and shoulder. The ripple of scars seemed to grow move vivid, fire and silk, alive as they stroked his skin, pulling him in tighter, harder…

***

Rose growled as she flung back the duvet, flinging off the robe which had become hopelessly tangled around her as she tossed and turned. Grabbing a pair of flannel pajama trousers from the wardrobe, she shoved her feet into them, barely noticing that the floor had become a little warmer and more yielding than usual. Tugging a t-shirt over her head, she went back to bed, cursing under her breath.

***

He felt the lashes wrap around his body like lightning, searing his sight. The pain rolled over him, ovewhelming him, until suddenly he felt as though he had been tumbled through the turbulence and lifted onto the crest of the wave.

***

Rose turned her face against the pillow, her body tightening. The low-grade arousal was making her grind her teeth, and the room seemed to tilt and sway for a moment as a ripple of pleasure moved out from her belly, dissipating before she could catch it, like a ripple on the surface of a pool.

Just great, she thought, punching the pillow as she readjusted it under head flushed cheek. Despite the rather anti-climactic release, she felt her muscles easing, and she relaxed, slowly uncurling until she was actually stretching beneath the duvet, pointing her toes and arching her back before settling into a comfortable position on her side. Almost immediately, she fell asleep, deep and dreamless.

***

He wasn’t certain which came to him first, the nausea and the bitter, metallic taste in his mouth or the cool fingers massaging his temples. The soft, deep voice washed over him in soothing waves, and he felt the vibrations against his back as the hard chest supported him.

“…deep breaths.”

“’m gonna be sick…”

“That’s all right, just let it go.”

He felt his own words echoing in his head and his stomach lurched. But then he took a deep breath and swallowed, feeling his digestive tract rearrange itself into a more normal configuration despite the burning in his throat. He leaned weakly back, his head falling against a bony shoulder. A cool palm pressed against his forehead, and he was uncomfortably aware of being sticky, but another deep breath brought him further back to himself. The Doctor was kneeling on the bed behind him, arms and legs lightly embracing him. Jack could feel the comparative heat of his own cheek against the Doctor’s and despite his unsteadiness, he felt protected and safe in a way he hadn’t since he was a small child.

“Okay?” The word was almost breathed into his ear, and one hand lightly rubbed his upper arm.

“Yeah.” He took another breath and let his body relax even further into the comfort of the long limbs that closed gently around him.

“Hey, hey.” Curved knuckles lightly brushed his cheekbone, part caress, part awakening stimulation. “You can sleep in a little bit, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He inhaled through his nose, still feeling the burn in his nasal passages and throat, but his head was clearing, and reluctantly, Jack opened his eyes as he was eased off the bed.

He looked down to find the floor with his feet, and swayed in shock not at the vomit, but at the blood.

“You’re all right, you’re all right,” soothed the Doctor softly, holding him up as he guided him to the adjoining bathroom. “It’s not your blood.”

Jack felt his equilibrium and strength returning, but he still wasn’t prepared for his blood-streaked reflection. Not that much, but enough to smear his body, stain his mouth and chin with unmistakable red. And as the Doctor leaned out from behind him to start the shower, Jack’s stomach roiled again at the sight of the scars, a vivid, livid pink-red. At the places where they had been the thickest, deepest on his upper back they had opened up again.

“What happened?” he gasped.

“Psychosomatic reaction,” the Doctor said calmly, testing the water with his hand.

Jack’s hands fisted instinctively, and the muted throb made him look down. “There’s blood under my fingernails,” he said, holding them out in dull horror. “And I can taste it.”

“It’s mostly just transfer, Jack. Don’t worry about it.” The Doctor’s voice was deep, almost tender as he lied. Jack could see it behind his eyes, feel it lying unperturbed beneath the serenity.

The Doctor pulled him under the water, using a soft cloth to wipe his face and chest, and Jack felt the dazed sensation retreating as he watched the cloth move lower. “Shit,” he breathed, his throat raw. “I came?”

“‘s okay,” the Doctor spoke, still in that almost unnervingly tranquil voice. “So did I.” He handed Jack a small cup, and Jack let the shower fill it so that he could rinse out his mouth. The Doctor was gentle but thorough in bathing him, and Jack was momentarily transfixed by watching the Doctor’s dark red blood running away from the torn flesh in rivulets that faded pink down his bowed back.

“It was a relief,” Jack murmured, understanding somehow as he reached out to trace some of the still-sealed scars with his fingertips. “You wanted these.”

“Needed ‘em, yeah.” The Doctor straightened, rinsing out the cloth in the shower spray, then wringing it.

“Atonement?”

“In a way. I didn’t need to get ‘em as much as I needed to take ’em.” He closed his eyes, tilting his head back into the water. Jack watched, mesmerized the image of the water trailing over sharp features and down the long throat — tranquil in a way he had never even imagined.

The Doctor lowered his chin, crystal-blue eyes opening to meet his. “I’m sorry, Jack. But thank you.”

“You feel better.” Jack stepped closer, resting his hands lightly on the narrow hips. “And I’m fine.”

“Except for the vomiting and passing out.” The Doctor raised an eyebrow, and the water took a new route down the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, but I’m fine now,” Jack insisted with a grin, reaching up to follow the water with a fingertip down to the tip of his nose. “And if I didn’t need to brush my teeth so badly right now, you’d be getting such a kiss…” His voice dropped to a deeper register, rough in his acid-raw throat. “You look so beautiful like this.”

“What, like a drowned rat?” Jack expected the rolled eyes, but the twinkle framed by wet-spiked eyelashes was even better.

“Calm.” Jack dared slide his hands around the Doctor’s waist, bringing their bodies closer together. “Relaxed. Honestly, worth a little blood and vomit.”

“So romantic.” The Doctor pressed a kiss so quickly to Jack’s forehead that Jack wasn’t even sure it really happened before the water was turned off, towels were distributed and used briskly, then the Doctor broke open a new toothbrush, handing it to Jack.

The Doctor leaned a hip against the countertop, carefully watching Jack wield his toothbrush with great enthusiasm. Jack paid attention to his tongue and the roof of his mouth, using a generous capful of mouthwash as well.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked as Jack swished vigorously.

He nodded before he spat, then refilled his cup with cool water and repeated the process before swallowing another cupful. “What was that, anyway? Just psychic overload?”

“Partly. And probably motion sickness into the bargain. For some reason, the synaesthesia between us seems to manifest as some sort of meteorological oceanic event. You all right?” The last expression of concern seemed to come out of nowhere as the Doctor rubbed Jack’s back comfortingly.

“I’m fine,” Jack reassured him, sliding his arm around the slim waist to bring their bodies together as he kissed him, a deep, lingering, but gentle kiss. “Let’s sic those nanogenes on your back.”

The roles were reversed as Jack shepherded the Doctor back out of the bathroom. The mess had been cleared away and the bed remade with a soft, dark duvet.

Jack sat the Doctor down on the edge of the bed and reached for the little pipe of nanogenes. “So, what exactly did I do to you?”

The Doctor looked up at him in surprise, the golden light of the nanogenes flickering over his face when Jack thumbed the end off the container. “It’s more what I did to you, Jack.”

“I’m not the one bleeding here,” Jack pointed out, setting aside the pipe and sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.

“I’m assuming that making your partner bleed isn’t one of your usual techniques.” That raised eyebrow again, and Jack grinned.

“No. But I don’t really remember it — is it always so overwhelming with a human?”

“No. Well, I don’t think so, I don’t know. I’ve never actually had sex with a human before, and if I haven’t, I can’t imagine there’s a Time Lord out there who has.”

Jack grinned. “Okay, so no even anecdotal evidence.”

“No. But this is a pretty unusual situation, Jack; there are no other Time Lords in my head, not any more. That’s a lot of psychic energy with no place to off-load it. And I’ve never had a sex drive like this before, either. Plus, the ripples from the Time War shifting under me… It’s like juggling with liquid explosives while walking a tightrope swaying in a high wind.”

Jack kept grinning at the analogy, but his hand curved soothingly over the close-shorn head. “So the first time, you drop a little here and there. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Oh, and you’re going to help me practice?”

Jack laughed wickedly. “You bet.”

“Is there nothing you can’t turn into an opportunity to get laid?”

“Probably not,” Jack replied easily, and chuckled at the Doctor shaking his head. But he waited a moment before venturing, “But since drawing blood really isn’t my thing, I’m assuming that it was something you wanted.”

The Doctor looked down at his hands, silent for a long beat. “I didn’t want it, Jack, but I think I needed it.”

“Can you tell me why?”

Another few moments of silence, and the Doctor flexed his wounded shoulders. Jack examined him briefly, satisfied that the broken skin had closed and snapped his fingers to send the nanogenes back into the pipe. He resealed the cap, then looked back at the downturned profile as the Doctor rubbed the thumb of his right hand into his left palm. Normally, he could see the wheels turning within wheels as the Doctor thought; at this moment, he could see them grinding, catching, winding backward.

Jack took a deep breath and pushed himself backward on the bed, setting the pipe back on the cabinet before stretching out and curling his arm behind him on the pillow, trying to assume, at least, a posture of ease. Tension remained in the bowed back, but not the rigidity of before, and Jack reached out with light fingertips to trace the bumps of the spine.

“You said something like that about these scars before,” he observed calmly, letting his fingertips trail along the too-prominent ribs.

“It was… some time after the War.” The Doctor’s voice was hoarse, but his tone was almost detached. “I ran across someone, someone like Aliala and her brother… Someone who’d lost everything and everyone because of me.”

Jack’s fingers hesitated as he remembered the girl in the forest, her bewilderment, her fear, her loss.

“He had been alone so long, and the anger and pain had become so great that it had consumed him. He didn’t want to kill me. Killing me would be too easy, and he couldn’t punish me in kind, because I had no world, no people left to lose.” The Doctor’s voice broke so slightly someone else might not have heard it. Jack barely dared breathe, afraid he might interrupt the recitation. “He didn’t need revenge. Not really. He just needed to scream out against the darkness and the end of Time as he knew it, and I could give him that.”

Jack felt the echo of the waves that had overwhelmed him, sweeping orgasm on the back of bloodlust, and he remembered the whip of lightning around his body.

“What just happened to me — that wasn’t all just us, was it?”

The Doctor shook his head slightly. “No. The memory was too close to the surface, given all that’s happened recently, for me to hold it back completely. I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t know that that was going to be what came out. I thought I’d be able to shield it better, or guide it to someplace safer, but…”

“Hey, hey.” Jack sat up behind him, dropping a kiss to the newly healed shoulder as he wound an arm around the Doctor’s shoulders from behind, resting his weight against his other hand. “No permanent harm done.” He paused for a moment, stroking the thin chest soothingly. “So you let him torture you so he would feel better?”

The sharp shoulders shrugged slightly. “It seemed the least I could do.”

Jack tightened his arm around the Doctor. “It was brave and generous. Stupid, but brave and generous.” The Doctor chuckled, and Jack turned to kiss his cheek. “And you kept the scars… why?”

“As a reminder.” The mercury eyes turned back to Jack. “And a warning. Damaged goods.”

Despite the twinge in the vicinity of his heart, Jack rolled his eyes. “Are you in Time Lord adolescence, or something? Would explain the black ensemble, that’s true, and the stompy boots.”

One corner of the full mouth quirked before the Doctor gave into his usual faux outrage. “Oi! Those are practical footwear, my boy.”

“Yeah,” purred Jack, pulling him with him as he laid back against the pillows. “Your boy. Do something about it.”

The Doctor turned to brace his hands on either side of Jack’s chest. “Not a quick learner, are you?” His tone was playful, but cautious.

“Hey, I was having fun, at least what I remember. I’m usually more likely to have an orgasm and then pass out, rather than pass out and have an orgasm. I like to remember those. You owe me one.”

That raised eyebrow again. “That’s a fair argument,” he acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “But do you trust me?”

“Yeah, I do.” Jack’s fingertips skimmed his ribs before reaching up to frame the strong face. “And if I pass out again, then you owe me two.”

The Doctor smiled a sudden, warm smile and Jack arched up to catch a kiss, winding his arms around the lean torso. The Doctor eased onto the bed, his unhurried lips and tongue exploring Jack’s mouth, and Jack wound his legs around him, pulling him closer.

Relict (12/15?, DW, 9/J/R, Adult - note that I said adult, right?)

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 16:18:30 GMT

Chapter Twelve - Refraction

She ran a comb through her wet hair, too familiar now with the peachy-mint scent and the silkiness imparted by the TARDIS-provided shampoo to even note the lack of tangles. With that same perverse insistence on pursuing a negative consequence that would make her poke a loose filling with her tongue, she carefully separated her fringe from the rest of her hair and combed it forward. It reached nearly to the end of her nose, and she almost laughed for a moment before the tears welled up again, stinging her nose.

Taking a shower usually cooled her down, whether she was angry or frustrated, but she was still both as she raked her fingers through her hair, shoving it back from her face before tightening her fingers almost painfully. Her elbow hit the top of the vanity, and she gazed hard into her own dark eyes.

Why do I let him do this to me? she wondered even though she knew the answer. Sometimes she thought she could just ignore it, enjoy those moments when he looked at her, or touched her, and they both knew there was something more than friendship, companionship, understanding there. Not less than all that, and more than she’d ever imagined with anyone, but still not enough.

He’d whirled into her life like a tornado, and suddenly she’d understood those idiot thrillseekers she’d seen in Saturday afternoon documentaries who chased after storms. It wasn’t just the speed or the power — although, God knew, there was that. It was the expectation, the electricity in the air, the potential for it all to spin up and lift her out of herself. Or into herself. It was confusing, yeah. But exhilarating nonetheless.

”Run!”

His hand. Perfect timing. Perfect fit.

But she hadn’t really thought, not really realized… When she was watching him flirt with Jabe like a goofy schoolboy, she was surprised at her instinct to step in between them, to remind him that she was there. But it wasn’t until she’d watched him go with the elegantly swaying tree and called after him like her own mum that the thought… No, it was all too much, had all started to crash in on her, the import, the risk. Fear had flashed into anger, and he had roared back. But a sheepishly offered gift, a welcoming back into the curve of his shoulder, more easily intimate than she’d ever been with anyone, and she’d only known him for an hour or two… Or in that dungeon, when she thought she might die with him, and suddenly even zombies in Cardiff receded into insignificance…

Time seemed to mean something different here in these walls. Her rational self was well aware that the time was short, a few weeks at most, but that time was fuller, more vivid, more present than anything she’d ever experienced. She didn’t want to give it up. Not for anything.

Though sometimes it seemed impossible to bear. Jabe was a warning. Jack would hurt like hell, but she could swallow her pride and acknowledge the better man in that case. But that laser-like gaze, the body coiled tight like a spring, the smoky voice that seemed to speak directly to nerve endings she’d really rather not be thinking of in the middle of a holy shrine, and all directed at the well-draped but alluring priestesses while Jack was practically waving him off and she was standing there like a prize gooseberry…

She shook her head and sat back, reaching for a couple of barrettes to keep her hair out of her face.

***

“I want to go home.”

The plaintive edge to Rose’s voice brought Jack’s head up sharply from the monitor. In an instant, he took in the tilt of her head, the slope of her shoulders beneath the pink hoodie, the way the toe of one trainer tucked into the arch of her other foot, and his eyes shot to the Doctor, perched on the edge of the console, his concentration having been wrested from the bit of machinery in his hands. The grey eyes tightened a little as they looked up at her, then back down at the machinery, a long thumb spinning a cog uselessly. The shoulders rounded slightly in the leather jacket, but at least there was no shrug to the perfunctory, “Yeah, all right.” Just a tightening of the jaw.

“Wait, wait.” Jack saw the flash of hope swamped by misery in Rose’s brown eyes, and he lifted a hand, taking a step closer. He rested his hip against the console, an arm’s length from both of them, and yet, somehow, he managed to keep from reaching out smacking their heads together. “What brought this on?”

“It’s my fringe,” she complained, twirling a finger into her shoulder-length hair, her gaze moving to Jack, even as he caught the Doctor’s head snapping up out of the corner of his eye. “It’s too long, and Mum will murder me if I cut it myself. Well, and she’s right. I always make a hash of it.”

“That’s all?” Jack couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face. He could even feel his ears move. “I liked those little braids you were wearing the other day,” he said sincerely, his hand making a twisting gesture near his own temple.

“Thanks.” The genuine grin was pure Rose, warm and cheeky, covering a little embarrassment, but it drained out of her eyes before it left her face. “But it’s just so frustrating…” Her eyes flicked to the Doctor almost imperceptibly. “I want to get it trimmed.”

“Does it have to be your mum?” The plaintive edge to the Doctor’s tone was almost the expected whine about the feared Jackie, but Jack could sense a little desperation. He wasn’t sure whether it was coming from the voice or the tense body language.

“What do you mean?” Rose’s confusion showed so clearly on her face; sometimes Jack’s heart broke a little at how transparent were her emotions. She was so young. He’d spent quite a lot of energy in the past few days trying to convince the Doctor that Rose was fully a woman, and he still felt she was; but she was very young.

“Well…” The Doctor fidgeted a little, looking down as his thumbs working the machinery he held loosely between his knees. “What if it was some really fantastic hairdresser somewhere else?” He half-squinted back up at Rose, and right there, Jack thought they were evenly matched. In this realm, the Doctor was acting like an adolescent boy.

Rose stared at him for a moment, then finally got out, “What d’you mean?”

The Doctor took a deep breath, and began with another thoughtful, “Well…”

He really needs to stop doing that, it’s a dead giveaway, thought Jack, allowing the corners of his mouth to quirk because neither of them were paying the least bit of attention to him.

“There are other hairdressers in the universe, some of ‘em really famous, almost like celebrities… for some reason. I mean, even I know that, and it’s not like I pay attention to that sorta thing.”

Rose’s impish grin crept back across her face as her eyes traced meaningfully over the close-cropped brown hair. “Yeah, I can’t imagine why you’d be interested.”

He gave her a quick look, half-wariness, half-teasing, that tweaked Jack’s hormones. A quick look at the flush on Rose’s cheeks, round with her grinning, told him he wasn’t alone.

“What about that?” asked the Doctor.

She hesitated a little, but Jack could feel her yearning toward the offer. “Yeah,” she said finally. “All right. Wait—” She held up a finger, narrowing her eyes. “This is someone who does, like, hair, right? Not fur or feathers or scales or somethin’?”

“'Course not,” he said, straightening with that slight huff he wore so well. “Actual hair.”

“Okay.” Her grin returned, just as he added,

“The feathers are just a sideline.”

“You!” Rose shoved her hand playfully at his shoulder, he grinned, and Jack felt, tentatively, that equilibrium had been restored.

“It’s a shame, really.” Jack sighed, perching on the console next to the Doctor and dropping a casual arm around his shoulders. “I was really looking forward to meeting Jackie. Can’t we just go for a visit?”

The shudder that passed through the Doctor was theatrical, but an exaggeration rather than a complete fabrication, and Rose’s glare became something more calculating as she looked Jack over, clearly contemplating something.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said firmly, then looked back at the Doctor. “Can we go now?”

***

“Wait—” Rose turned around herself the moment they exited the TARDIS. “Haven’t we been here before?”

“Yep.” The Doctor turned to lock the TARDIS door.

“It’s Axhe,” said Jack, taking his bomber jacket off and slinging it over his shoulder. He wagged a finger at Rose warningly. “You — stay away from the jewellery tables.”

A shiver passed over her at the thought, and she nodded, not even bothering to play along with him. She was still feeling a little uneasy; part of her had wanted the excuse to run home and cry to her mother, but she also knew that she couldn’t possibly have done that. The fear that Jackie would have said “I told you so” was pushed aside by the fear that Jackie would have gone Doctor-hunting, double-barrelled; both were swamped by the fear that Jackie would have held her close and comforted her and asked her to tell mum all about it. It would all come tumbling out, she knew that, and even admitting to her mother that her heart was close to breaking would mean that she’d actually acknowledged that it was never going to work out.

She couldn’t do that. Not yet. She’d seen the look on his face when she’d demanded to be taken home. For a split second, his eyes had been hollow, that look that echoed, “They’re all gone, Rose,” in her head; losing her would have meant something to him. He’d admitted it before. I could save the world, but lose you. But he’d been so willing to take her home. And then, he’d found an out for them both. You really are hopeless, she told herself in the same instant as, There’s still a little hope.”

But she was a little confused by the brightly-coloured familiarity around her. “Why are we back here?”

“Because it’s the best shopping around. I need to get a few things for the TARDIS, we need more milk—”

“Again?” asked Jack, getting a raised eyebrow in return.

“Three mouths to feed, go through it a lot faster than we used to,” the Doctor explained, and Rose smiled a little, always more comfortable when the playfulness was restored between them.

“And, it’s also where Liane has her salon. Rose needs a haircut.”

“Liane?” Rose shoved her fists into her baggy jeans. “That sounds like a human name.”

“Funny that, Liane is human.” The Doctor’s smile was almost gentle, and she felt the uneasy knot in her stomach shift, loosening in one direction, tightening in another. He held his hand out to her. Instead of reaching immediately for her hand, it was a more enquiring gesture, his palm turned up, and his eyes seemed just a little distant. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and laid her hand in his, feeling the hard smoothness of his cool skin whisper against her palm. His fingers curled gently around her hand, and she could not help returning the clasp swiftly, warmly, relieved as he turned to look at Jack.

“Right. I’m going to drop Rose off at the salon. Can you—” He took a large yellow Post-It™ note from his pocket, scribbled in a language that was neither English nor the strange circular script, and handed it to Jack. “Can you collect these things?”

Jack glanced over the list before slipping it in the back pocket of his tight jeans. “Absolutely.”

“All right then. See you back here by—” The Doctor checked his watch. “Half seven, local time?”

Jack tapped his wristcomp. “Got it.” He grinned broadly, waving. “See ya!”

Rose returned his wave as he turned and strode off into the bazaar.

“Right,” the Doctor said again, turning to look at her. “Ready to go?”

“Just the two of us?” she asked without thinking, and the memory flared warmly in his grey eyes. She could see it as clearly as if it were playing like a movie across both their faces.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his lashes dipping in a soft echo of the slight bob of his head.

“Good.” She dared bump him with her shoulder as they turned to walk down the pathway, and their bodies jostled as naturally as they always had, though she was aware of every bump and brush, nearly catching her breath once when his hands at her waist brought her in front of him, lightly against his body to avoid a hovercart operating at unsafe speed. She relaxed back against him for a brief moment, and she thought his hands skimmed her hips as he moved her beside him again, his hand catching hers without any hesitance. The silence between them was a little easier with all the hubbub around them.

***

The salon was surprisingly modest, given the celebrity the Doctor assured her that Liane had accrued, just a moderately posh storefront in an older part of town. The windows were draped with deep blue and red silk, and the name “Liane’s” was written in shimmering scripts all over on the glass. The one that Rose could read seemed to become more prominent as they drew closer, with some of the others flickering out like matches. A light, tinkling bell sounded as they stepped inside the cool interior, and a slim, androgynous, vaguely human-but-not-quite figure sitting at the reception desk looked up at them with violet eyes and a reserved smile.

“Welcome. Have you an appointment?”

“Miss Rose Tyler,” said the Doctor, pulling her forward. She felt suddenly frumpy and disheveled, her cheeks definitely feeling the touch of sun, and she was certain she was sweatier than she should be in such an establishment.

The receptionist looked over the transparent screen on the desk. “No— I don’t see—”

“Here we are.” The Doctor whipped out the wallet in which he kept the psychic paper, and Rose felt herself blushing, almost wishing she could run away, but he pulled out something that looked more like a business card.

The receptionist looked at the card, which seemed to be printed by the same process as the windows, because even Rose could see the name “Liane” flickering across the cream-coloured card stock. “Ah. Just a moment.”

The receptionist got up gracefully and left the reception area.

“You have a card from a hair salon?” She turned to him, too surprised to be polite.

He shrugged, returning the wallet to his hip pocket. “Met her at a do once, long time ago. Or, well, I will have done, ‘bout seven thousand years from now—”

“Doctor!”

Rose was still boggling at his parsing of verb tenses when the petite woman in an elegant, egg-shell white — smock, really — emerged from the interior. The simplicity of her garb, the ordinary human beauty of the slim curves, the pixie-ish features, and large dark eyes, was yet another surprise. The woman who hesitated for just a moment was one of the most lovely Rose had ever seen, but she was glamorous in such an open, unadorned way, and nothing in her dress or hair or cosmetics tried to hide that she was probably in her late forties. The simple, but striking asymmetrical brunette bob was shot through with silver and white.

She reached out to touch the Doctor’s cheek for just a moment, then tip-toed to kiss both his cheeks as he bent down for her, his hand leaving Rose’s to rest gently on her shoulder. “Liane,” he said, his voice in that deep, rich register. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you,” she said, her liquid, dark eyes still searching his face. “You’ve changed — so much.”

He simply nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing, then put on that overbright smile that Rose knew was always a mask as he straightened, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. “Not as pretty as I used to be.”

“No,” Liane agreed sadly, eyes still assessing. “But… more beautiful, I think.”

Rose saw the Doctor’s flinch, the mask slipping, and her hand slipped into the curve of his elbow comfortingly. He looked down at her with a small smile, his arm moving around her shoulders, and there was a touch of pride in his voice that warmed Rose’s belly, holding the Jabe flashbacks at bay. “Liane, this is my companion, Rose Tyler.”

Liane’s eyes turned to Rose, and she extended a smile and a hand. “Hello, Miss Tyler.” Her voice was as firm as her handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” she responded.

“Rose’s fringe is too long, apparently,” said the Doctor, looking down at her. “Can we do something about that?”

“But of course.” Rose wasn’t sure if the slight French accent was an affectation or genuine, but she found herself liking Liane. Then, of course, she’d liked Jabe, too, who’d been very gracious for a posh tree. “Come with me, my dear.”

“Right, then,” said the Doctor, gently pushing Rose forward. “Off you go. I’ll come back for you in, what, a couple of hours?”

“You’re not staying?” asked Liane, clearly disappointed.

“Got some errands to run,” he explained. “‘Sides, you don’t need me in the way.”

“I suppose,” sighed Liane, running her eyes over his short-cropped hair, and she mourned, “Your beautiful curls.”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he turned to leave the salon, and Rose was torn between amusement and boggling over the idea of the Doctor with beautiful curls.

***

Jack put the small box of gears in the rucksack he had bought — not exactly transdimensional, but with a little antigravity unit that lightened the load considerably. That was the last thing on his list, and he lingered at the entrance of the hardware shop. He checked his wristcomp again, but it had taken him much less time than he had expected to complete his scavenger hunt, in part because he had gone to the pirate district, despite knowing the Doctor’s disapproval without even asking. He knew why he’d done it; he was still resisting the impulse. But his feet were heading down into the cavern district. He was just along for the ride.

***

Rose shook her head from side to side, amazed by the soft gleam and silky swish of her hair, better than any shampoo commercial. The colour was lighter than her usual brassy peroxide hue, but softer, warm with more realistic tones and highlights. Liane’s cut was almost invisible, and yet perfect. Other than her delicate fringe, her hair didn’t seem any shorter and was still mostly straight, but had a terrific shape, even loose around her shoulders.

“It looks fantastic!” she exclaimed, unconsciously appropriating the Doctor’s word. “Really, thank you, so much!”

Liane was watching her in the mirror with a smile, her head cocked thoughtfully to one side as she ran some strands of Rose’s hair through her fingers. “The shampoo seems to have messed up your make-up a little,” she lied gracefully. “Do you mind if I have another go?”

“Makeover?” Rose grinned. “Yeah, why not?”

***

Even though his last time here had been unsatisfactory, and even though he felt weirdly guilty, Jack found himself back on the dance floor at Zarua. He just wanted to lose himself in the beat, the heat, the haze of pheromones, let go of the tension for a while. The idea of fucking himself out and organizing the emotional fallout later had seemed appealing until he was actually surveying the menu, but a little exercise could burn off some of the frustration, and he threw himself into the melée, trying desperately to forget his last dance partner.

That was why, at first, he thought it just was a figment of his imagination, flickering at the periphery of his vision.

***

Rose was a little disconcerted by the reflection in the mirror. She recognized the eyes, the mouth, even the touch of sun beneath her eyes. It was almost the face she saw every morning, but with subtle changes. Her eyes seemed bigger, even though Liane had creamed away the mascara and eye shadow. The lashes were long, but soft, and the touch of colour almost imperceptible on her mouth. Her cheeks seemed to have lost their babyish roundness, giving her a more mature, sleeker look, particularly with the newly smooth hair.

“Oh,” she said softly, feeling oddly as if she were looking at herself at twenty-nine, rather than nineteen, and yet it felt right, despite the distance. She turned in her chair to look at Liane. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

Liane smiled, fluffing Rose’s fringe almost affectionately. “Of course.”

***

No.

He stood still, instinctively catching his balance upon being buffeted by the dancers around him. His gaze couldn’t waver or be broken, because what he saw was just too unbelievable.

It really was the Doctor, here at the most extravagant bordello in light years, both spatially and temporally, entwined in an embrace in the shadowy corridor that led to the bedrooms. Jack wasn’t even aware of drawing closer, only of the picture growing clearer.

The Doctor’s head was bowed, his eyes closed, forehead resting against the broad chest of a bear-like Tirsuan. His hands were pressed prayerfully between the massive paws as the Tirsuan opened its impressive jaws. Jack felt his heart pounding, aware of the strength of the Tirsuans and their savagery in many time periods, even though this embrace seemed nothing but tender and the Doctor looked up into the fearsome face with something akin to gratitude, tinged with sadness. Fear was overtaken by a miasma of jealousy, curiosity, and shame, as if it were his own fault that Jack had caught the Doctor in flagrante.

He melted back into the dancers, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from following the Doctor out the door.

***

Rose looked at the array of little jars and tubes and phials, attracted and overwhelmed in equal degree. The cosmetics table was dizzyingly expansive, and as Liane was assembling a selection for her, Rose’s attention wandered to some of the other displays. A brilliant spray of colour caught her eye, and a sly smile crossed her face.

“Liane?” she asked, turning to the woman who was tying a broad blue ribbon around a small white box.

“Yes, Rose?”

“Would you mind helping me with something?”

***

“No. Thank you, though.”

Jack held up a hand in acknowledgement, pocketing his credit slip as he left the bordello. He had considered buying time with the Tirsuan, but he knew that the standards of confidentiality at this establishment were exceptionally high, and even with his most concentrated charm, he would have been wasting his time. He’d even managed to give the Doctor nearly five minutes head start, though it had been all he could do to stop from racing after him. The wristcomp was cheating, but much safer than getting caught.

The Doctor was heading back to the older part of town, stopping at a metalworker’s stall in the artisan’s quarter, and Jack picked up his pace, nearly running until he drew within a hundred metres. This was not too far from the hardware shop he had visited earlier, and he adopted his most casual stroll as he came upon the Doctor, looking at some necklaces made of fine copper wire.

“I think she’d like that,” said Jack, pointing, and he saw the muscles in the Doctor’s jaw tighten before the Time Lord looked up at him.

“Got everything on the list?” The tone was not unfriendly, but there was something Jack couldn’t quite put his finger on. To Jack’s practiced eye, he didn’t look like someone who’d just gotten laid, but he did look like someone who’d just done something extremely taxing and now was calm, but from exhaustion or relief or some combination, Jack wasn’t sure.

Jack tucked his thumb under the strap of the rucksack slung over his shoulder. “Every single item, and a few more besides.” He looked down at the table of necklaces and pointed out one that had a similar twisted spiral pattern to the necklace that had started all the trouble.

The Doctor shook his head slightly and took a deep breath, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets as he looked up at Jack with a hint of the usual expectant expression. “Right. Ready to go collect Rose?”

Jack gestured outward with his free hand. “Lead on.”

***

The fleeting look on his face, right before he schooled his features, felt like a punch to the stomach, and Rose immediately regretted her playful idea. Clearly a misstep.

“What is that on your head?”

“It’s just a joke,” she said softly, reaching up to tug on one of the feathers worked into her hair, and Liane moved quickly, pulling a few strategic quills that allowed Rose’s hair to tumble loose around her shoulders.

“Oh.” She could actually see the gears click in his head, and he smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was just put off by all that—” And he made a vague gesture around his own head.

“It’s all right,” said Liane soothingly, taking a brush from the pocket of her smock. “I think you will like this.”

Rose watched the Doctor’s face closely as Liane brushed out her hair, and she could see Jack’s approving grin from the corner of her eye. The Doctor seemed to relax gradually, but his eyes as he looked her over were still a little more intense than felt comfortable. No, not intense. Not exactly. Rattled?

Liane patted her head gently, and Rose shook her hair back over her shoulders, sliding her fingertips into the pockets of her jeans as she shifted from one foot to the other under the weight of his gaze. It had been only seconds, she knew, but the wait seemed interminable. “So?” she asked finally, unwittingly betraying her tension by flexing her hands out from her trapped fingertips.

The cool grey eyes met hers finally, his tense face relaxing slightly. “It looks nice,” he said softly, and she couldn’t help smiling, because he wasn’t exactly the type to bite when she was fishing for compliments. Then he turned his eyes to Liane, and the grey colour seemed to warm, darken a little, igniting a little spark of jealousy as he bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Liane, watching her hand as she smoothed Rose’s hair gently. She looked back at the Doctor. “I’m glad to be able to do something for you.”

The Doctor smiled slightly, shrugging in that “It was nothin’” way of his. He looked at Rose purposefully and held out a hand. “Ready to go?”

***

The background whirring of the TARDIS sounded comforting. Not the usual, purring contentment to which Jack was becoming habituated. But almost like the low crooning of a nursing mother, tender, almost monotonous, soothing.

Jack automatically set his boots at a 90-degree angle perpendicular to the bed, wiggled his toes in the slightly stale socks to ease the tiredness from all the walking and carrying — and dancing. Normally, he didn’t think he would have felt quite so drained, but the tension of the past few days had taken a toll.

They were all feeling it. He could tell, because the tasty dinner at the Hourami zeibo parlour had been far more reserved than any meal he could remember since joining the party on the TARDIS. The whirling colours and lights, the scarves of the dancers, the rhythmic pulsations of the music should have had them laughing and exchanging innuendo-laden witticisms, but those had been few and a little forced. Nourishment was consumed, which was about all he was willing to allow on that front, and Rose had brought what she oddly called a “doggy bag” back to the TARDIS with them before retiring for the night, shadows around her beautifully made-up eyes. Even Jack’s genuine compliments had brought only a slight smile and a kiss on the cheek. There had been a moment when he though she might give the Doctor a similar good-night kiss, but the moody Time Lord had wandered off to take a look at something on the console during their exchange, and Rose’s slightly plaintive “goodnight” was echoed almost perfunctorily.

Jack had a mind to be mad about the Doctor’s distance from both of them, from Rose in particular, especially after having caught him just about red-handed in Zarua only hours before. But this wasn’t the usual obliviousness from the Doctor, and Jack was a little worried. Maybe he hadn’t recovered as well as they had thought.

Jack flexed his toes, then took a deep breath, exhaling it sharply as he pushed himself off the bed, arching his back tiredly. Automatically, he took a look at himself in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair — Maybe I should have asked Liane for a trim, he thought, completely without innuendo, and made his way back to the control room. It seemed a shorter distance than usual.

The lights were very low, even for ship’s night. It was in the pale blue-green glow of a readout that he could see the sharply drawn features of the Doctor. The gunmetal blue eyes reflected aqua lights as they flicked up at him warily, then returned to the screen. But they lacked the familiar intense focus, and Jack could see the tension in the shoulders, even under the leather jacket. The arms were crossed over his chest, one thumb thoughtfully pressed to his lips.

He didn’t look up again, even as Jack came to stand beside him. The human felt a strange tingling, a confusion emanating from the Doctor between warding off and desiring his closeness. There had been times, particularly when they were happy and giddy and running from danger, that he could feel the Doctor’s mind brushing against his, like their hands did as they walked along side-by-side. This was a firmer touch, warm, but a little frightening. Or was that frightened?

Jack dared something he’d never yet quite dared himself, although Rose did it all the time. He’d always envied that closeness, and a warm relief slipped through him as he relaxed against the Doctor’s side, his arm sliding around the slim waist. In his sock feet, with the Doctor still in his boots, they were almost exactly the same height, but the Doctor was always thinner, narrower than he expected. Jack rested his chin on the bony shoulder, looking down at the screen as if it could tell him the problem. The strange, circular text meant nothing to him, but he suspected it could not tell the whole story. Maybe not even part of it.

The Doctor did not move, but he did not resist Jack’s closeness. When Jack turned his face against the side of the Doctor’s neck, inhaling the scent of him — cardamom and leather and perspiration and the faint sting of lingering phosphorescence from the zeibo parlour, overlying a tantalizing muskiness — the alien laid his cheek against Jack’s hair.

Jack’s heart took a slight hitch, and he closed his eyelids tightly, breathing more deeply, his body responding to that undercurrent of sex that seemed to grow stronger as his tongue ventured out to taste the cool, slightly stubbled skin just over the double-rhythmed pulse point. His skin was separated from the leather sleeve by only the thin cotton of his tee-shirt, and when the Doctor moved slightly against his chest, the stimulation shot through him like an electric shock. Jack had taken a few hits of safe, low-grade neurochemical stimulants on the dance floor and had several servings of intoxicants at dinner, but nothing hit his neural pathways like that small, accidental caress.

“Why him?” he asked softly, trying to keep the plaintiveness out of his voice.

“Who?” asked the Doctor distractedly, lifting his head and returning his eyes to the screen.

Jack could kick himself for the loss of that slight embrace, but he inhaled again, seeking out a specific scent but unable to find it. “The Tirsuan.”

His fingers tightened involuntarily on the leather-clad waist as the lean body became rigid as stone.

“What.” The flatness of the voice was even worse.

“I was in Zarua this afternoon,” said Jack, straightening but retaining his hold. “So were you.”

The eyes never wavered from the screen on the console. The eyelashes didn’t even flicker. “None of your business, Jack.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed, forcing himself to stay calm and even. He felt like there were two possibilities hanging in the air — either the Doctor would turn on him in rage, or he might just shatter into a million pieces. “But it is Rose’s, and I’m taking her part here.”

“How would it be Rose’s business again?” The sudden snap around of the head, the raised eyebrow over stormy eyes, the sharpness of tone were strangely reassuring.

“Tirsuans can be dangerous. Something happens to you, I can cope. Rose would be lost without you.”

The eyes flicked back to the console. “The TARDIS would get her home.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

The tension in the body against his eased just enough that Jack could feel the vibrations. “It was nothing, Jack,” he said, his voice hollow as he shook his head slowly, almost regretfully.

Jack closed his eyes, daring to brush his nose against the hollow temple as he turned his head. When he felt the slight, tentative relaxation of the lean body against him, he brought his hand up from the waist to the nape of the long neck, gently massaging as his other hand closed gently on the near arm. ”It didn’t have to be ‘nothing’,” he murmured, his lips brushing his ear, and Jack felt a surge of triumph swamped by tenderness when a deep, but subtle shudder went through the taut body. ”In case you hadn’t noticed, there are two people on this ship who would give anything to give you what you paid for this afternoon.”

“You have no idea what I paid for, Jack,” whispered the Doctor hoarsely, tensing again, but as he started to pull away, Jack held him, not trying to meet his eyes. Not yet. He knew that was too much, too soon. But he pressed his forehead against the Doctor’s temple, feeling a little curl of darkness waft through him, until it was sucked away, as if smoke through an air vent, leaving him strangely bereft. The sensation was unsettling, scraping his nerves, but for the first time, Jack felt that his occasional suspicions about the Doctor’s psychic abilities were confirmed.

“Tell me, then.” Jack kept his voice low and warm, encouraging. He relaxed his hold very carefully, ready to grab him again if he threatened to bolt, his right hand kneading the taut muscles at the nape of the bowed neck. “You know I’m not going to judge you.”

“It’s not about what I want, Jack. It’s what I need.” The words were ground out, just above audibility.

“Then tell me.” Jack rubbed his thumb along the taut muscles at the join of neck and shoulder. “You know we’ll do anything to help you, haven’t we proven that?”

“Some things can’t be asked, Jack.”

The flat voice seemed to echo in the empty console room, and Jack felt his throat thicken. “Maybe not,” he allowed, hand stilling. “But they can be offered.”

The Doctor’s lips pressed together so tightly that they whitened, and Jack could feel the tension building again.

“You don’t want to hurt us,” Jack murmured. “I get that. But we know you can’t. Not really. It’s not in you.”

The low laugh was hollow, and even Jack felt the little hairs on the nape of his neck rising at the rattling sound. ”Oh, Jack, you have no idea what’s in me.” The tone was mocking, but the voice teetered between laughing and crying.

”Maybe I don’t,” said Jack, his hand moving down to rub between the shoulder blades. “But whatever happened, it did something for you. I could tell you were a little easier, at least until we picked up Rose and you started to tense up again.” He returned his hand to the slim waist, holding him close. ”I’m not wrong, am I?”

There was a hesitation, and Jack wasn’t entirely sure if there was actually a nod, or he just felt the affirmation.

”Doc, I understand if you need to let go.” There wasn’t even a flash at his use of the dreaded nickname, and Jack dared move closer. “It’s allowed. You’re not going to shock me. I have faith in you.”

The vibration was undeniable now, physical and mental, propagating through both of them, and Jack held on even as the Doctor tensed toward escape. He became aware that he was rocking against the Doctor’s bony hip, but he found he couldn’t stop even as the stormy-sea eyes turned sharply to his.

“That’s a very stupid thing to do, Jack,” he said softly, and it took Jack a blink or two to realize that the Doctor meant having faith in him, not humping him like a horny teenager. But there was a softness in the Time Lord’s face that Jack had never seen directed toward him, only toward Rose, and briefly at Nancy back at the bombsite. It helped him get himself under control.

“I don’t think so,” he said, tightening his hand on the Doctor’s arm even as he reached up to stroke over the close-cropped hair. It was much softer than he expected, and he let his hand cup the strong skull as he caressed the concave temple with his thumb. “Somebody has to, and you’re not doing it at the moment. Rose does.”

“Rose is an innocent child—” the Doctor asserted, but Jack’s chuckle interrupted him.

“Oh, we’ve been over this before. Rose is nothing of the sort. Naïve, yeah, inexperienced maybe, but believe me, she’s a grown woman. She knows what she wants, in graphic detail — you should try leaving the psychic paper around more often, she broadcasts in supersaturated hyperdimensional Omnisensorium when she’s sleepy or had a few. And you know she’s a hell of a lot stronger than most humans.”

“Yeah, she had to grow up with Jackie Tyler for a start,” snarked the Doctor with the dazed humour that often comes with emotional upheaval.

“I’m dying to meet this Jackie. She must be ten feet tall and have tentacles with poisonous talons, from the way she terrifies you.” Jack laughed, making an illustrative claw of his free hand, but he was still watching very carefully.

“She slapped me,” retorted the Doctor, palm to his cheek in an echo of that long-ago response, his outrage tempered with an almost child-like sheepishness.

“Sometimes, somebody has to.”

The Doctor’s flash of humour faded into exhaustion, and Jack sighed.

“I get it,” he said softly, trying not to pay too much attention to his own insistent body, hands urging the Doctor to turn more toward him. “You need some things you’d rather not need, and that scares you around Rose. Okay. Doesn’t mean you have to take care of this on your own.” His lips brushed against the rim of the Doctor’s ear as he breathed. “You can break me if you need to. I know you’ll put me back together again.”

The Doctor took the kind of deep breath that betrays frayed composure, and Jack rested his head against the Doctor’s for a moment before gently turning him into his arms. The hesitation seeped slowly out of the taut body, and the Doctor’s arms gradually came around Jack, tightening until they were both trembling and Jack could barely breathe. He’d pass out before he’d protest, though, one hand still rubbing the tense back.

Somehow, subtly, the embrace had changed, and the Doctor was rocking Jack very slightly side to side, his arms easing slightly. Jack was still aroused, almost painfully so, and while they were the same height, the Doctor’s legs were much longer, which meant that he was somewhat frustrated in his attempts to gain a little friction; but better, he could feel an answering pressure against his belly, and he altered his instinctive motion from seeking his own pleasure to stoking the Doctor’s.

Another deep thrum shot through Jack’s body, bringing with it a burst of fiery coldness, and he shuddered, holding tight even as the Doctor tried to push him away. “Stop it,” he said softly, pressing his cheek against the cooler one, feeling the working of the jaw. He kept one hand at the nape of the neck, holding him in place as his other hand smoothed down the taut back, coming up underneath the jacket to squeeze certain muscles he’d been wanting to get hold of since the three of them had burst through the wall in Albion Hospital. ”You don’t have to protect me.”

“Jack,” protested the Doctor, even as his body pressed closer. “You have no idea.”

“God, you’re hard work,” groaned Jack, the sensual tone in his voice unintentionally undermining the attempt at levity as he made himself pull back. He could feel the dynamic shifting, on more familiar ground as he reached down to take the hands from around his waist, linking their fingers. “Come with me.”

The Doctor’s eyes were dilated, dark, but held something almost hopeful, and Jack’s smile was almost imperceptible as he stepped back, pulling on the Doctor’s hands. The heavy workboots dragged across the grating, but Jack tightened his grip on one hand as he turned to lead the Doctor into the depths of the ship.

His room was suddenly the first door down the corridor. Jack smiled and kissed his fingertips, laying them against the twisted coral as if in a blessing. The organic metal felt warm to his touch, and as they passed through, the Doctor’s fingers slipped from his.

Jack turned to see the Time Lord leaning in the doorway, his fingers gripping the door jamb, his forehead pressed to the coral, which seemed to soften and yield ever-so-slightly under his touch. The shifting eyes were closed, bones and muscles working subtly in temple and jaw, skin so pale it was almost translucent.

Jack felt tenderness pressing against his throat, and he turned away, to give him — them — a moment of privacy. He went to his dresser and quietly began to gather some things from the drawers and laid them out on the bedside table. As he stripped off his socks, tossing them in the corner, he realized that the floor had also somehow softened and warmed, and he smiled as he dug in his toes. He raised his eyes to the Doctor, his temple turned against the doorframe and some of the tension seemed to be gone, replaced by… not exactly resignation, but a slightly rueful smile. The light here was brighter than in the console room, but still glowing and soft, a more golden colour than Jack had experienced before in the TARDIS.

Jack took a deep breath and went to him. To his relief and amazement, the Time Lord entered his room, the door sighing closed behind him. A slightly awkward moment flickered past as Jack took him in his arms, and the Doctor submitted almost immediately.

“Some nerve,” he muttered into Jack’s ear. “Me, hard work. Hmmph.” But his body was already relaxing.

Jack felt a little laugh escape him as he clapped him on the back, and he pulled back to search the inside breast pocket. Jack had never done this before, though he’d certainly seen Rose making free with the Doctor’s pockets on many occasions, and he realized with a warm flush that he was being observed with the same tender amusement.

He came up with his prize, wagging the sonic screwdriver with a cheeky grin before sticking it in his own back pocket, then pushed the leather jacket off the narrow shoulders. The Doctor let Jack take the jacket and put it over the back of his desk chair, and he brushed past him on the way to the bedside table.

His fingertips skimmed over a couple of plain white silk scarves and an elegant pair of electronic handcuffs, and he looked at Jack with a raised eyebrow. Jack shrugged and grinned, checking the setting on the sonic screwdriver before sliding it onto the bedside table, his body leaning alongside the Doctor’s. Their faces were close as Jack’s arm found its way around the narrow hips, and he nuzzled against the side of the long throat.

“These are the important things,” he whispered, fingers finding the small objects by touch.

The Doctor sat on the side of his bed, looking at the items as Jack surreptitiously unzipped his trousers to give himself enough room to kneel. He started to unlace the heavy workboots as the Doctor picked up a cobalt-blue flexitube with discretionary luminescent lettering.

“Government issue when I come from,” said Jack with a wink as he got one boot off. “Laid in a good supply before I left.”

”I’ll bet,” said the Doctor dryly, setting down the tube of lubricated skin sealant before picking up what looked to be a small, metallic pipe bomb as Jack worked on his other boot. ”Explosive powder?” he asked curiously, holding it up. ”Just what do you think it is that I need, Jack?”

The human grinned, dropping the other boot. He leaned up on his hands against the bed on either side of the long thighs. ”Repurposed container,” he explained, stealing a soft, lingering kiss as he closed his fingers around both the tube and the hand holding it. ”Nanogenes from my Chula timeship. They know me…intimately.” The Doctor actually grinned at his purring tone, and Jack felt himself relax as he kissed the hand he was holding, there on the webbing between thumb and forefinger where there once might have been a burn scar. ”And they know you, too.” His other hand came up to stroke the soft, close-shorn hair as he turned to kiss the Doctor’s mouth again, tongue just tracing the inner curves of the parted lips. His teeth caught warningly at the lower lip before he murmured, “There’s nothing we can do to each other that can’t be fixed.” He rested his forehead against the Doctor’s, unexpectedly overwhelmed by the moment. He realized not all those emotions were his; the need was shared, but the doubt was not coming from him.

”I know you’re in love with Rose, Doctor,” said Jack softly, setting aside the nanogene tube to take the Doctor’s strong face in both hands. His thumbs stroked the sharp angles of the cheekbones as the faintly kiss-swollen mouth opened in protest. ”You’re not fooling anyone. Even Rose knows, though she’d really, really like to hear the words.”

The Time Lord blushed like a little boy, his ears pinkening, and Jack smiled.

”But I know you like me, at least, and I think you love me a little.”

“Sure of yourself,” muttered the Doctor, his eyes gleaming like mercury, and Jack grinned, kissing him again a bit more hungrily. The response, however hesitant, made his heart trip, and he reached down to free himself as he felt the warm tongue teasing underneath his. His hand slid back up against the long thigh, under the edge of the blue jumper against bare skin.

”You’re not the big bad lone wolf you like to think you are,” breathed Jack, shivering with the ripples that perturbed the emotions flowing from the Doctor, eyes so close he could barely focus. His fingertips slipped over the bumps of very human-feeling vertebrae until they stumbled over a smooth ribbon of flesh, and Jack moaned softly in soothing regret, tugging the soft blue jumper over the Doctor’s head.

He marvelled a little that the close-cropped hair was long enough to ruffle, but Jack reached out to trace the exposed collarbones, a bit too prominent for his liking, his fingers moving down over the hard chest as he rose back on his knees. He tilted the Doctor forward into his arms, and was surprised by how docilely he submitted as Jack laid his head against the bony shoulder, cradling him as he traced the ribbons with his fingertips. ”Why did you not fix these?” he asked, hating the silky smoothness of the skin under his touch.

“Why do you think?” The Doctor sighed, sitting up to look at Jack, smiling bittersweetly. He took a deep breath. ”You don’t have to do this, Jack.”

“Yeah, I do.” Jack’s response was intentionally soothing, and he used his palm to sweep over the scars, finding comfort in the roughness, before he sat back. “What do you need, Doc?” he asked, resting his hands on the jeans-clad thighs. ”If it’s within my power, I’ll do it. If it’s not, I’ll find someone or something that can.”

“Ah, Jack,” sighed the Doctor, rubbing his both hands over his face roughly for a moment before smoothing them over his head. He laced his fingers in the nape of his neck and arched his back tiredly before he relaxed, shoulders almost collapsing. His eyes met Jack’s bleakly and his next words surprised Jack with their openness. ”I’m not sure what I need.”

“Then let’s find out,” declared Jack, always happy to have a plan. He rose on his knees to find another kiss, letting his tongue slide a little deeper into that cool-warm mouth as he climbed over the Time Lord, pressing him gently back against the bed.

Relict (11/14?, DW, 9/J/R, Teen but on the rise)

Tue, 24 Mar 2009 04:08:53 GMT

Beta: wendymr

Chapter Eleven – Diffraction

“There’s a door.”

Rose lifted her head from the curve of her arm. Across the small pool, Jack was turning a white-gold handle to open a plain door in the wall of the Zero Room. “It’s got smaller,” she noted, looking around her. The room seemed more egg-shaped than ever because it was now only about a dozen feet in diameter, and she looked down at the Doctor, who was sleeping, looking more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.

She smiled without thinking, feeling her heart lift as she got to her feet a little stiffly. “The TARDIS must know he’s getting better,” she observed, trotting around to join Jack.

She’d expected the corridor, but the door simply led into another room, a much larger, more comfortable room. It looked a bit like the library, with its dark wooden floor and large fireplace, and a bit like something halfway between a comfortable cottage and a grand country house, with a trestle table on the dark rag rug near the fireplace and a large wooden-framed bed with a plain, dark duvet in one corner. A bowl of fresh fruit and vegetables, pitchers of water and some sort of pinkish-orange juice, bread, cheese, china, and cutlery were laid out neatly on the table, and the rumbling of Rose’s stomach reminded her how long it had been since the feast. A wooden wardrobe on the far side of the bed stood open, with a few pairs of jeans folded on the bottom shelf; Rose’s pink hoodie and Jack’s RAF uniform were recognizable among the clothes hanging from the rod.

“I’m starving,” commented Jack as he picked up something like an plum and sank his teeth into the purplish flesh with a crunch more like an apple.

“Mmm hmm,” agreed Rose, moving toward the wardrobe. The fresh clothes were almost as enticing as the idea of food, but she noticed immediately that there were no jumpers or dark jeans, and she realized retroactively that the Doctor’s jacket had disappeared from the Zero Room with the rest of his clothes. She squatted down to open the large drawer at the bottom, discovering a couple of sets of her bras and panties — a simple pair of white cotton briefs with matching sports bra, and a raspberry pink satin set that made her blush despite the relatively sedate cut; on the other side were some wildly coloured silk boxers that had to be Jack’s, and between was a cobalt blue tee-shirt of a light, soft knit that was remarkably enticing to the touch… Underneath, as she discovered the shirt in her hands, was a pair of boxer-brief-type shorts, and for a moment, she felt embarrassed to be touching them, but the blush seemed to evaporate before it had spread much past the curves of her cheeks. Get a grip, Tyler, they’re just underpants, she thought with a wry grin, shaking her head slightly. Where had the maidenly shyness come from, all of a sudden?

She slid the drawer back in place with a slight scraping of wood. Even though she had just left him, she found herself drawn back into the Zero Room, which had undergone further transformation until it was something more like an en suite bathroom. Against one wall was now a sink and vanity with various toiletries — some of which were very familiar to her — and on the opposite wall, on the far side of the pool, a shower head and a glass partition had appeared.

And in the pool, the Doctor was awakening, stretching. As she looked to him, his eyes opened directly into hers, crystal-blue and laser-focused, and she laughed out loud in surprised relief. “Good morning. I think.”

“Doesn’t matter what time it is,” said Jack, breezing into the room. “The TARDIS has clearly decided it’s time you were up and at ’em.” He tossed one of the plum-apple fruits at the Doctor, who caught it easily in both hands as he sat up. Jack had also brought in the cobalt-blue underwear/pajama ensemble and placed them on a shelf beside some fluffy towels. Bracing his feet apart, hands on his hips, he looked at the Doctor with a trace of concern beneath his jaunty expression. “Need help?”

The Doctor had practically inhaled the fruit, tossing the core into a little wastebasket near the vanity, then swished his hands through the water before putting them on the sides of the pool and pulling himself up. He seemed unconcerned about his nudity, Jack looked more like an orderly with a recalcitrant patient than his usual lustful rake, and Rose had become a little inured by concern, but the water sheening on his pale skin, rivulets tracing the wiry muscles that flexed in his limbs and abdomen, beneath the scars on his back. He was totally unlike Jack, or even Mickey, with their well-tended muscularity, but just as different from Jimmy Stones’s stylish, lazy skinniness, nurtured by various chemical habits. There was a fierce, stark beauty to the sharply defined muscles, unsoftened by any trace of body fat, but it made Rose inexplicably sad, and she looked away as Jack stepped forward with a towel. She surreptitiously caught a tear with her thumb and pretended to be taking a stray lash away from her eyelid.

…

The Doctor allowed Jack’s light hand under his elbow without comment as he stepped into the soft briefs — which were very brief when actually on his body — then pulled the shirt on over his head. Something changed in him as the silky material settled over his back. He seemed relieved, more relaxed, standing straighter as he tugged the shirttail down to his hips.

“Where’s the rest of it?” he asked, reaching out to take the towel from Jack and rub his cropped hair.

“Sorry, that’s it,” said Jack. “The TARDIS took your jacket, too.”

The sharp chin jutted out ever so slightly, and Jack grinned.

“There’s no door in the next room, either.”

This time, there was a genuine eye roll, and Rose laughed, a rich, throaty laugh. Jack looked over to her, arms crossed over her waist, and for a moment, he thought she might have been crying, but she bounced over to the Doctor, linking her arm through his. “Come on, let’s feed you.”

“I’m not hungry, Rose,” he protested, but he let her guide him into the next room.

“Yeah, well, you need food anyway,” she replied firmly, and Jack smiled ruefully, tossing the towel into a wicker basket that had appeared from somewhere.

Despite his protest, the Doctor did put away a fair amount of chicken broth (or some equivalent) from a tureen that had appeared in their absence, along with some fresh vegetables and fruit juice, and then, unbidden, went to the bed and slipped in, asleep practically as his head hit the pillows.

“Wow,” observed Rose softly, a chunk of bread having been halted halfway to her mouth by that unexpected performance.

“Yeah,” Jack chuckled. “Hey, why don’t you take a shower? I’ll tidy this up.”

She looked back at him with thoughtfully narrowed eyes. “Are you sayin’ I need a bath, Mr. Harkness?”

“Captain Harkness,” he corrected cheekily. “And yeah, I am.” He ducked as the chunk of bread flew at his head, and he grinned unrepentantly as she flounced up from the table. With sharp movements, she took up a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and some white things from the underwear drawer, clutching them all to her breast.

As she backed through the bathroom door, pushing it open with her bum, a broad smile on her face as she whispered, “Thank you,” and disappeared inside.

Jack chuckled again, gathering the used china and cutlery, stacking them neatly on one corner of the table. He stretched and poured himself some more juice, taking a faintly restless “turn” around the large room. It was blank, anonymous in many ways, but felt lived-in and comfortable, despite the simplicity, and the paradoxically spare but warm quality wasn’t lost on him as he found himself at the bedside.

His hip rested against the mattress as he looked down at the sleeping face on the muslin pillow. It almost took his breath away, the lack of tension, the stark ferocity of the chiselled features softened by sleep. He had had glimpses before, those unexpected moments when the incredible focus lapsed, or the charisma was beaming in another direction, and Jack could see beyond the projection of the sheer personality to something proud, sad, intelligent, and yet with an innocence he had rarely encountered. Jack reached out, letting his fingertips lightly trace the hollow temple from hairline to eyebrow, curving around the eye and down along the high cheekbone. He could see the movement of the eyes beneath the delicate, blue-veined eyelids, and suddenly, he felt heat flash through his veins, like the ghost of fire, provoking both a shiver of fear and a distinctly more visceral and sexual response. The surprisingly fine eyebrows tensed momentarily, and Jack felt the fear subside, if not the erection. He smiled, daring to let his hand curve over the soft hair as he bent to kiss the sharp cheekbone, regretfully bypassing the softly parted lips.

“Your turn!” Rose’s voice was soft but bright as she bounced back through the door, towelling her hair. She hesitated a moment, seeing Jack draw back from the Doctor, his fingers trailing along the bare forearm on the dark duvet. “Is he all right?”

Jack smiled comfortingly, determined not to spook her as he left his glass on the table. “He’s fine,” he reassured her, putting his hands on her shoulders, on the damp patches her wet hair had left on her pink t-shirt. “Just dreaming a little.” He kissed her forehead, then went to collect his own clean clothes from the wardrobe before retiring to the bathroom.

…

Rose stood still in the middle of the room, squeezing the length of her wet hair in the towel. Jack had been bent over the Doctor so — intimately, and she still wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. She ought to be … jealous? She’d seen them dancing, after all, and it seemed like Jack drew a more overtly sexual response out of him, when all her best attempts at seduction tended to end in either a friendly cuddle or an abrupt goodnight.

That really wasn’t fair, she mused as she arranged the wet towel over a ladderback chair. Jack had been shut down as often as she had, and sometimes a lot less politely. She combed her fingers through her hair and went to the bedside. With only a moment’s hesitation, she climbed onto the bed, carefully fitting her body along the back of his, through the duvet. Her arm draped over him, her fingers finding his hand. Her fingertips traced over the strong bones and corded veins on the back of his hand, slipping between the relaxed fingers. Nestling her head in the curve of the back of his neck, she took a deep breath, inhaling his scent of cardamom and ozone. The shades of leather, machinery oil, and the honey-salt of sweat were missing, and she fought the odd temptation to taste his skin.

…

Jack was used to taking himself in hand when he had to, but for some reason, it seemed impossible on this ship. At first, he’d thought it was the sentience of the TARDIS, but Jack was hardly shy and an audience was more likely to encourage than discourage him. But, like his strangely unsatisfying trip to Zarua’s a few days earlier (was it really only a few days? time seemed to be expanding even further, here in the confines of the TARDIS), it proved fruitless. The arousal dissipated, diffused throughout his body, leaving him unsated and unfocused — well, not entirely unfocused, as the focus was quite manifestly in the next room. More confused than irritated, he rinsed off and pulled on fresh clothes.

In the next room, Rose was cuddled up on top of the duvet behind the Doctor, her arm around him almost protectively. Her hair was drying in a tangle, and he thought she was asleep, but she lifted her head as he drew closer.

“Have you slept at all?” she asked with touchingly genuine concern.

“Not much,” he conceded, and she beckoned him with a slight motion of her head. He started to climb in behind her, but she shook her head.

“Get on the other side of him,” she whispered. “That way, he’ll be less likely to be getting up and going walkabout without one of us.”

He winked. “Good plan.” He found another duvet, lighter in both colour and tog, and spread it over both recumbent figures before climbing in between the Doctor and the edge of the bed. Luckily, there was room for him to stretch out without plastering himself entirely against the sleeping Time Lord (not that plastering didn’t sound like a lot of fun in the right circumstances). Rose snuggled closer, her eyes closing as she inhaled deeply at the base of the Doctor’s skull, and Jack felt a faint surge of envy with an aftertaste of arousal. But the moment he allowed his muscles to relax, it seemed to release something within him and, slinging an arm loosely across the Doctor’s hip, he fell asleep with remarkable swiftness.

***

“Bloody hell, how does he do it?”

Jack sat up, pushing back the duvet with a grunt of frustration, and Rose stirred, stretching and yawning. Her hair was a tangled mess — the roots were beginning to get quite noticeable, too — and it took a moment for her to pry open her eyes.

“Wha’?”

“Mr. Stealth Time Lord. He’s gone.”

That snapped her awake, and she sat up, looking around the room for someone who most assuredly wasn’t there.

“There’s a new door,” she pointed out, kicking away the duvet tangled around her legs.

They shoved their feet into their boots, lined up beside the bed, and found themselves out in a corridor that was comforting in its familiarity.

“It’s about time. You humans, spend all your life asleep if you didn’t need to eat.” The Doctor waved his butter knife at them as they rushed into the galley. “Tea’s on the table, muffins in the breadbin. Jam in the fridge.” He took a bite of his bran muffin, looking at them with what seemed to be amusement.

“What, dog got your tongues?”

“Cat,” corrected Rose automatically, scratching her head through her tangled hair. “How long have you been up?”

“Oh, hours and hours. Well, a couple of hours, anyway. You two were snoring like freight trains, how’s a body to sleep?” he asked, shoving the last of his muffin into his mouth as he got up from the table, gathering used cutlery and brushing crumbs from the table into his small plate with the side of his hand before carrying it to the dishwasher. “You’d better hurry, we’ll be there in—” He checked his wristwatch. “—About ten minutes.”

“Where?” asked Jack, torn between amusement and exasperation.

He pronounced some impossible combination of consonants, vowels, and something between a click and a glottal stop, then looked at them in disbelief. “Where d’you think? C’mon, get a move on!”

“Um — do you think you should be racing around so soon?”

The Doctor looked up from stowing his dishes in the dishwasher with a quizzically lifted eyebrow. “Soon?”

“Don’t pull that on me, Mister.” Jack was a little surprised by Rose’s aggressive step forward, poking a finger directly into the Doctor’s breastbone.

He slapped his hand to his breast with an exaggerated, soundless, “Ow!”, his shoulders flexing inward protectively with a creak of the leather jacket. He then grabbed her hand, his offended expression crumbling into a grin just as hers did. He playfully wagged her hand in his, and she leaned in to bump his chest with her shoulder, their eyes twinkling in a way that betrayed some memory shared between them.

“Don’t do that.” She was laughing, but a genuine plaint underlay her tone, and his face softened tenderly as he put his hands on her shoulders, steadying her as she pushed her hair back from her face. “I’m serious. You’ve been sick, or hurt, or something and—” The tangles fell into her eyes again, and he smoothed them back with a light hand, cupping her cheek as he ducked down to catch her eyes with his. “I just want to make sure you’re okay before we go racing around somewhere.”

“I know,” he said softly, and Jack could see from the dilation of her eyes how the tone of his voice affected her. It affected him, and it wasn’t even aimed in his direction. “I promise. Everything is perfectly fine.”

“Okay,” she said in a small, doubtful voice.

“Okay,” he replied, more assertively. “Go and brush your hair. You look frightful.” He turned her around and gave her a swat on the behind, and she turned back to give him a cheeky curtsey.

“Thank you very much, sir.” She wrinkled her nose impudently at him

“You’re welcome,” he replied easily, as she slid out the door.

The Doctor was grinning as he turned to put his tea mug in the dishwasher.

“Is it?”

He looked at Jack with genuine lack of guile. “Is it what?”

“Perfectly fine.”

The grey-blue eyes never wavered, either the most open gaze or the worst tell Jack had ever seen.

“Yep.”

***

“Move, move, move, go-go-go!” Jack’s hand on the back of the leather jacket propelled the Doctor forward, and the Doctor caught Rose under one arm, half-carrying her the last few steps into the TARDIS. They tumbled inside, sprawling on the ramp in a tangle of limbs, and Jack managed to slam the door behind them before sliding down the wood panels to sit on the floor, laughing.

“Just once—” Rose lifted her head, looking down at the Doctor, who was nonchalantly stretching out on the grating, even with her draped over him. “Just once, could we possibly leave a planet at less than a dead run?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked, looking up at her with wide grey eyes, and Jack chuckled as she thumped the Doctor one on the shoulder, pushing up on her elbows above him. He’d managed to extricate one long leg from the tangle, getting the sole of his boot onto the grating as if to get up, but Rose was on top of him, straddling his other thigh. If Jack had truly wanted to dice with death at that moment, he would have made a naughty comment, but he was dissuaded by the spark in Rose’s eyes.

“If it had been him—” She jerked her head in Jack’s direction.

He responded with an appropriately offended, “Hey!”, which was roundly ignored.

“If it had been him,” she reiterated strongly, emphasizing it with another thump to his chest, “we wouldn’t have got chased by the pitchfork-and-torch brigade, and the priests with muskets.”

“They weren’t muskets, Rose, they were primitive flare-muzzled sonic blasters—”

“They were muskets for all intents and purposes.” She interrupted his correction, which was halfway between a patient teacher and a five-year-old explaining to his mum why he got his hand stuck in the biscuit-tin, and Jack stifled a snigger he knew would not have been well-received. “But you had to flirt with the temple virgin — both of them — and after you’d already let them assume I was your wife, an’ all!” She growled in frustration and pulled up to her knees, still astride his thigh. “Breaking and entering, defilement of a holy site, blasphemy, adultery …” She ticked off the offenses on her fingers, giving him a little shove when he tried to protest during her litany.

“I was just asking for directions to the library,” he said in a small voice, shrugging against the floor.

Then her voice turned poisonously sweet, “Oh, I’m so sorry that they misunderstood the way you asked for admittance into their inner sanctum. Did the TARDIS mistranslate for them, or did you?” With another thumping shove, she got off him and stamped into the interior of the TARDIS, and if Jack wasn’t mistaken, her eyelashes had been a bit wet there near the end.

The Doctor watched her go, absently rubbing his abused breastbone. As she disappeared around the corner, his eyes closed briefly in what Jack thought looked suspiciously like relief; but after a moment, he bounced back up to his feet with a cheery grin. “So, where to next?” he asked, clapping his hands together and rubbing his palms.

“How about we just sail the Vortex for a couple of hours before we go somewhere and cause another riot?” Jack leaned back against the door, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms on his chest.

“Come on, Jack! I thought you were in it for the adventure, the excitement, the danger!” The Doctor squatted down before him, eyes glittering almost feverishly. A twitching muscle in his jaw betrayed his tension, and Jack reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have anything to prove, you know.”

The grey eyes blinked, dilating slightly in the dim light, and another careless shrug rippled the shoulders of the leather jacket. “’M not trying to prove anything.”

Jack slanted him a look, and then got to his feet, surprised when the Doctor helped him, moving in close enough that their bodies brushed. The firm hand remained at his elbow.

“Yeah, well, racing around like a madman, flirting with temple virgins — and I saw you, so don’t play innocent with me, mister, I know flirting when I see it —”

“Do you, Jack?” A blue glint came into the grey eyes as the Doctor stepped into him, long thigh brushing along the inside of Jack’s as he backed him against the door, and Jack caught his breath in surprise, but took control of himself firmly.

“Yeah, and I can see you pushing and pulling Rose all over the place. And me, but I can handle it. It’s no mistake those people thought you and Rose were married — yeah, you’re always holding hands and making with the verbal foreplay and up in each other’s personal space like, ‘what’s that?’” Jack widened his eyes in mock innocence, then took a deep breath. “Look, even before I met you, I knew she was in love with you. And it took, oh, maybe a nanosecond to see that you felt the same way. So why do you keep dancing around it, you should pardon the expression?”

The glint became steelier, the jaw tighter, and Jack saw stars as the back of his head hit the door, propelled by the force of a kiss that literally took his breath away. Teeth crashed at the moment of impact, but within a heartbeat, the kiss had softened, deepened, and a large hand had come up to cradle his bruised head with remarkable tenderness as an agile tongue teased and caressed his. Jack’s hands grabbed for an anchor, finding the battered leather of the jacket as he tried to respond, to keep up with the potent sensuality of the kiss, but he felt like he was hopelessly outclassed, a disconcerting sensation to say the least.

As the Doctor pulled back, he nipped at the inside of Jack’s lower lip. Gunmetal eyes assessed him for a moment before softening. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Hey, don’t be,” Jack said softly, sneaking one hand inside the jacket to the shallow curve of waist and hip, thumb lightly caressing the inside of the Doctor’s hipbone. “It was fantastic!” He laughed a little breathlessly at his own joke, and the Doctor obliged by giving him a little eyeroll. “No, seriously.” He cleared his throat, edging his thumb under the hem of the dark blue sweater. “Best kiss I’ve had in a long, long time.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, and even he was a little surprised by the eagerness betrayed by his voice. “Want to take this to my room?”

The Doctor blinked once. Twice. Then pulled back from Jack, looking at his hands almost as if they didn’t belong to him. His eyes slid away as he stepped back, searching the lofty arches of the console room with a curious tilt of the head. “D’you hear that?”

“Hear what?” asked Jack, swallowing his disappointment as the Doctor made his way to the console, checking some of the controls as he moved to the left.

“That wobble in the hum, at about 380 Hz. That’s not supposed to happen, not even with a pitchfork or two stuck in the panelling.” He squatted down to take a section of grating up and hopped down into the work area.

Jack checked his wristcomp, then slid his hands into his hip pockets as he went over to the edge of the grating. “Look, I’m a big boy, I can deal with a first-class cocktease like you.” The Doctor hesitated ever-so-slightly as he crouched down to the floor, ready to get underneath the machinery. “But it’s not fair, what you’re doing with Rose.”

“She’s a child,” he said softly, sitting on the floor and switching on his sonic screwdriver. Jack expected him to slide under, but he just sat there, contemplating the blue glowing light.

“She’s not, you know. Even in her own culture. Old enough to marry, bear a child, old enough to drive a motorized vehicle, old enough to vote, old enough to take intoxicants, old enough to serve in the armed forces — ” Jack saw the slight flinch, even gazing at the top of his head. “You ever done that? Served in the military?”

The Doctor muttered something and lay back on the floor, checking the sonic screwdriver minutely.

“What?” prompted Jack, with an exaggerated lean.

“With, not in,” the Doctor enunciated carefully, reaching back and not meeting Jack’s eyes, but still not sliding underneath. Jack took that as a sliver of desire to actually talk, and he squatted down on the edge of the grating. The next bit was muttered, almost under his breath, “Even drove a motorized vehicle.”

Jack swung his legs around to sit on the edge. He wasn’t going to be distracted, as fascinated as he was with any hint of the Doctor’s past life. “She’s not a child, you don’t feel about her as if she were a child, so why do you keep her a child in your mind?”

The Doctor’s arms dropped suddenly, and he lay there for a moment, staring up at the wiring before lowering his eyes to Jack. “What?”

He looked startled, wary, almost frightened.

“I remember that much. More than you thought, huh?”

Jack wished the sight of that Adam’s apple bobbing in the long, stretched throat weren’t so sexy, with that tinge of vulnerability. He wanted to stay on edge, a little angry with his concern.

Finally, the Doctor said carefully, “It’s safer that way,” and he reached up to check two wires, then suddenly sat up. “You remember what?”

Jack hopped down into the crawlspace and lowered himself onto his hip, his arm propped across the Doctor’s body in an echo of the position they had shared in the dream. “I remember kissing you,” he said softly, raising the fingers of his left hand to trace the surprisingly soft lips, and the Doctor’s eyelids drifted closed for an encouraging moment of acceptance. Jack leaned a little closer so that when he spoke, he knew his breath was touching the pale skin. “I remember Rose, looking about ten or twelve. In your mind, she’s a child. If you know she isn’t, isn’t that worse?”

The Doctor kept his eyes closed, almost squeezed shut. “It keeps her safe,” he gritted out.

“Aaaah.” Jack dragged it out, even as his fingers “accidentally” slipped down the bare skin in the v neck of the blue sweater. “Does it really? Aren’t you just hurting her more by not acknowledging that she is someone you could love and desire? Because you do, you know.”

The Doctor shook his head slightly; his eyelashes were wet, but he didn’t open his eyes. His voice was a little unsteady. “No, it’s not like that. She is — a child.” Finally, his eyes opened, dark blue, dilated. “So are you.”

Jack laughed loudly in his face, shaking his head. “Wow. You are working hard at this.” He pulled back and got easily to his feet. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy the puttering. You’re not doing a blind bit of good to anyone out here in the real world.” Pulling himself easily up onto the grating, Jack paused for a moment, enjoying the perplexed expression on the Doctor’s face for a brief, spiteful moment. “Oh, and by the way? There’s no ‘wobble’ at 380 Hz.” Jack held up his wristcomp, hand held in a loose fist. “The TARDIS is fine.” He thrust himself to his feet and strode out of the console room on feet that were shakier than he’d like to admit, leaving the Doctor alone on the floor of the TARDIS, holding his sonic screwdriver as the TARDIS hummed quietly and smoothly around him.

Relict (10/13?, DW, 9/J/R, Teen for the moment)

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 01:23:30 GMT

Thanks as always to wendymr for the beta reading.

Chapter Ten – Propagation

“Doctor?”

She hesitates, but the door swings open at the lightest touch, and the path of light across the floor seems to beckon her in. The linoleum is smooth and cool beneath her bare feet, and her toes curl a little as she approaches the monkish bed.

The scars almost seem to glow in the low light, splayed across his back as he lies in bed, arms folded beneath the shallow pillow, close-cropped head turned toward the wall, dark blanket pulled up as far as his hips. The bedclothes are rumpled enough to testify to a restless sleep, and she reaches out, intending a soothing caress over the dense, seal-like pelt of his hair, but her hand continues its way down the long, vulnerable nape of his neck. Her palm rises, fingertips grazing the pale skin of his back, and a shiver passes visibly over him as his head rises warily.

“Rose?” he asks tentatively, yet his tone says that he knows it is her. She smiles gently even with tears in her eyes, her fingertips tracing the eerie silkiness of the burn scar on his shoulder. She bows her head to press a kiss in the centre of the scar, her fingertips sliding along the stripes that curve around his ribs, and his back bows as her hair slips against his skin, the shiver propagating over the length of his body.

“Yes,” she murmurs against him, fingers slipping around, brushing against a taut nipple as her palm seeks the double heartbeat beneath soft hair.

He reaches back to push her hair gently away from her face, cupping her cheek as he turns over toward her, his weight propped back on his elbow.

“What are you doing here?” he asks huskily, fingers tenderly raking her hair back behind her ear.

“Wanted to see if you were all right,” she says almost defensively, and he smiles a bit wryly, lifting an eyebrow as his thumb taps lightly at her lower lip. Unconsciously, her tongue darts out to taste his touch on her lip and accidentally touches his thumb. His eyes, almost silver in the low light, dilate suddenly, and his palm rests against her cheek, fingertips arrayed lightly from her temple to the side of her throat, thumb stroking lightly over the fullness over her lower lip.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs distractedly, eyes searching her face, coming to rest on her mouth.

Her eyes follow the fall of his long lashes, darker in the shadows, over his sharply cut cheekbones to his wide, soft mouth, lips lightly parted as his chest rises in an unsteady breath. Gravity seems to pull her toward him, and suddenly he swoops forward, his mouth catching hers in a deep, searching kiss, his cool velvet tongue exploring with urgency but not hurry.

He steals her breath away, but it’s a loss she’s willing to endure. Her arms wind around him, hands slipping along the ribboned paths to anchor herself on his sharp shoulder blades. As sparks start to burst behind her closed eyelids, he pulls back, teeth grazing her lower lip. Her forehead rests against his as she tries to catch her breath, and his cool fingers slip beneath her hair over the heated skin of the nape of her neck. The temperature differential makes her shiver, and she gasps. The tightening of her nipples against the lace of her bra is actually painful, in an utterly fantastic way, and she’s still luxuriating in the sensation as his voice roughly intrudes.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, yes, I should,” she retorts, lifting her eyes to his.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t be here,” he purrs, the big hand that has been supporting him sliding over her hip as he cradles her head in his other hand, turning to lay her on the bed beside him.

“Oh, yes, you should,” she replies, fighting down a triumphant laugh as she stretches into the caress of his hand, over her hipbone to her lower belly, through the pliable knit of her yoga pants. Her cheeks almost hurt, she’s grinning so broadly, but the smile falters as his eyes darken.

“This is dangerous,” he warns, and despite the words, her body reacts strongly to the rich timbre of his voice.

“I don’t care,” she responds with a dismissive shake of her head as her hand slips over his shoulder to press over his hearts, then she gasps as his fingertips drag lightly across the rise of her pubic bone.

“You should, though,” he muses, his tone thoughtful and reasonable and completely at odds with the teasing trace of his fingers along the seam of the trousers. “You should be terrified.”

Her fingers dig into the hard muscles of his chest, and her mouth is ironically dry as she feels her moist heat beneath his touch. “I’m not scared of you,” she asserts sincerely, breath trembling as her thighs ease apart for him.

He bends closer, his nose brushing lightly against hers as his fingers follow the seam downward. “You should be,” he repeats gruffly as his mouth takes hers again with an aggression at odds with the gentle teasing of his fingers.

His mouth is so soft, even in its ferocity, and she can feel the fine trembling of his muscles as he arches over her. Her hands slide down his back, over the ridges of the scars, and he pulls back suddenly, eyebrows drawn tight over full-blown dilated eyes. “Don’t,” he pleads, suddenly small and vulnerable.

“Why?” she asks, caressing his back, and he shakes his head, reaching back to take her hands in his as he pushes up. He folds her hands between his as he sits back on his heels.

“Go back to your room, Rose,” he says hoarsely. “This is a mistake.”

His obvious arousal gives her confidence, and she tugs one hand free as she sits up, sliding her hand along the extraordinary, lean length of his thigh. “I don’t think it is.” She reclaims her other hand as he let his fingers loosen and fall to his sides. His eyes close, head falling forward as her hand curves over his head in the same caress she had first given. She ducks underneath to kiss his mouth softly. “I want this,” she breathes, her lips brushing his, and her cheek rubs against his as she drops another kiss on the prominent knob of his collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before her tongue soothingly laves the hollow at the base of his throat. She can feel the bob of his Adam’s apple against her cheekbone, and his head dips to find her kiss.

Her fingers slide through the short hair, holding him to her kiss as she moves astride him, her free hand skimming his hip. She can feel him tense as her touch approaches the scars, and she presses ahead, making no hesitation over the rough remnants of damage on his body. She can feel the unexpected heat of his oh-so-human penis nudging against her, through the thin barrier of now-wet cloth, and she’s careful, not knowing how sensitive or skittish he’s going to be. The kiss is her first priority, meeting and welcoming, inviting him in.

His growl startles her, not least the visceral pleasure of the sound vibrating through the kiss, through her body, and she melts into him as his arms pull her tightly against him, long fingers tangling into her hair. His mouth slides down along her jaw, and her head falls back as much as he pulls it back, his teeth grazing the side of her throat and making her shiver.

Her fingers rake through his short-cropped hair, seeking purchase, as his mouth returns to hers. His hands are cool and firm as he pushes her t-shirt up, around her ribs, but they lose their smooth, certain purpose upon encountering the hooks of her bra. She giggles into the kiss as she reaches back to flick the fasteners open with a practiced touch.

He wastes no time with embarrassment or apologies, his big hands curving around to cup her breasts, and she gets her arms out of both the shirt and the bra, gathering them under her chin so that she has to break the kiss for the briefest of moments to get them over her head. But he’s faster than she is, a surprise that is no surprise, as his mouth latches onto the vulnerable curve where her shoulder meets the nape of her neck. His teeth scrape enough to make her squirm, but the soothing pressure of his tongue relaxes her just as his thumbs brush over her tight nipples, setting off a shower of sparks all over her body, including before her eyes.

She thinks she hears him plead softly, “Get out of here, Rose!” But she is overwhelmed by his strength as he lays her down beneath him on the bed, his mouth blazing a trail down over her collarbone. So she slides her hands firmly down his taut neck, over the sharp shoulders that seem broad and narrow at the same time. He curves one hand over her breast, lifting it toward his descending mouth.

“I’m right here!” She purrs, but the last word is squealed as his teeth nip sharply at her nipple. The pain is a shock, and she’s momentarily embarrassed at the liquid response of her body, but she immediately decides it’s far too pleasurable not to stretch into and enjoy. Her desire is to wrap completely around him, but she seems to have no control over her muscles and she’s lost track of exactly where the boundaries of her body are and how to move on anything other than instinct.

In the distance, she hears him saying something to her, something that sounds like the dirtiest of pillow talk with an undercurrent of fear, even as he nuzzles across to her other breast. The ribbons of scar tissue under her fingers focus her attention, drawing her touch along them. The dreadful silkiness of the tight skin is seductive, and arches into his mouth as with her fingertips, she traces the eerie trails. She seems to see them burning silver behind her closed eyes, glowing in the dark, guiding her, drawing her forward, slipping between her fingers, twining around her wrists, jerking her unceremoniously into the blinding light as she is pulled under the seething, solar surface of the burns blistering his skin…

…

“Rose?” Jack’s hand was light on her shoulder, and she jumped, lifting her head in disorientation. The light was bright, but diffuse, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted. Her right arm was numb, just on the verge of pins and needles, but she lifted herself instinctively into a sitting position with her legs curled beneath her. Her mouth was dry, but her cheek and the shoulder of her dress felt suspiciously wet. She realized that she had been drooling, and despite the stiffness in her body, a residuum of arousal warmed the pit of her belly. Her shoulders and limbs were little cold, but her cheeks were flushed hot as she pushed her tangled hair back from her face and looked up uncertainly at Jack.

“What…?” she asked, just as she remembered, and turned swiftly to see the Doctor, still lying in the bath beside her. She’d clearly fallen asleep, curled on the floor. Jack’s jacket and her shawl were still there, a little rumpled bundle of a makeshift pillow.

But her concern was entirely for the Doctor, who seemed not only asleep, but genuinely unconscious. Only the slight movement of his eyes beneath eyelids that seemed inordinately delicate and thin reassured her he was alive.

“How long?” she asked, looking back at Jack with concern.

“You weren’t asleep that long,” he said, sitting back from where he was leaning over her. “Maybe a couple of hours. Bad dream?”

Her eyes skittered away from his, and she muttered, “Not really.” She inched a little closer to the side of the bath, reaching out to take the Doctor’s hand in hers. She was still trembling; a coldness was settling where the heat had been, and her stomach performed a nauseous little twirl. His limp hand felt like an anchor, bringing her back to this reality. It felt odd to feel separate again, even as her fingers laced between his, and she wondered why the word “again” came to her. She had been dreaming, but it was slipping away, receding into darkness as the light enveloped her once more.

“How long has he been out?” she asked, looking back at Jack .

“’Bout the same as you, I guess. I dozed off at some point, too. When I woke up, just a little bit ago, he was right out, and you were obviously dreaming. Sounded a little like you were having trouble breathing, so that’s why I woke you up.”

“Thanks, Jack,” she said sincerely, with a smile, wondering why she still felt a tinge of regret.

“What were you dreaming?”

Jack’s eyes seemed a little piercing, almost clinical, and she shook her head. “I don’t really remember,” she said truthfully, rubbing her still-flushed cheek. She felt the oddness draining away, as the reality of her body seeped back in. She felt like she had a sunburn from their day’s excursion. “Just one of those dreams, I guess.”

“Okay, then?” he asked, and she nodded, rubbing her thumb across the back of the Doctor’s hand as she gazed down at him.

“Actually,” she said suddenly, realizing as she looked back at Jack. “I don’t suppose a door has shown up?”

He shook his head, and she made a face.

“That’s unfortunate. I really need to pee.”

He laughed, nodding toward what appeared to be a blank wall until it became an oval opening. “That, the TARDIS has provided.”

“Thank God!” she giggled and got to her feet, moving a little stiffly toward the opening.

Jack sat back, his weight resting on one hand, his elbow on his upraised knee, watching the wall become whole after her. His thumb tapped thoughtfully at his jawline, and he looked back down at the unconscious Doctor in the bath. What did you do to her? he wondered, leaning back against the wall. His nose was three thousand years more evolved, genetically enhanced, and intentionally trained than hers, and he knew full well how her body had reacted to her dream, even if she didn’t remember it. And he knew what had happened to him in his own dream, even if parts of it were beginning to slip away in that tantalizing way that dreams did, but he was using every mental facility he had to keep it from being taken away.

…

The console room is darkened, and he knows exactly where the Doctor is, but it still takes more than one circuit of the console to find him, lying half-under the exposed wiring, pale greenish light exaggerating the planes and angles of his face. The grating he’s pulled up is propped against the edge of the console and his knees are slung loosely over the flooring. He’s wearing his jacket. This time.

“Been here before, Jack,” he says softly, taking the sonic screwdriver from his teeth and using it to repair something beyond Jack’s view. “Didn’t get the point?”

“Where is Rose?” he asks, and a look, almost of distraction, passes over features that had been relaxed. He can see the tautness building in the jaw.

“She’s in her room. Asleep.” The answer is surprisingly curt, and the sonic screwdriver is returned to his teeth as he reaches back to jerk at something inside the circuitry. His touch is usually so tender with the TARDIS (at least her insides — the console has seen its share of mallet abuse), and Jack looks at the big captain’s chair, pushed to the other side of the circle.

“She was here, last time.” Jack remembers her curled up, sleeping restlessly in the chair. The Doctor, wearing the same green jumper — the one with the vine detailing down the front — but without the jacket, had left his little den beneath the console to check on her, hand curving tenderly against a flushed cheek. He had looked worried and picked her up in his arms, taking her back to her room.

“Well, she’s in her room now. Asleep,” asserts the Doctor firmly, pulling himself deeper into the bowels of the TARDIS to bang on something, and Jack drops down into the crawlspace beside him.

“Good. Then I’ve got you all to myself.” Jack grins as he can practically feel the Doctor rolling his eyes. His own eyes are drawn down the long, exposed throat, over the deep notch of the collarbone and the hard plane in the v of the jumper. Before he quite realizes it, his hand reaches out, and for a moment he sees double, sees his fingertip slip down over the pale skin with its scattering of fair hair, provoking a shiver of reaction. Now, the lapels of the weathered leather jacket frame both chest and jumper, and the camel-colored lining of the jacket flares out around the narrow torso. Jack feels the trace of a cool kiss and his tongue instinctively chases it across his lips as he lays his hand flat over the slow double heartbeat.

The Doctor’s tinkering stops, and Jack holds his breath, turning his hand to let his fingers trace over the leanly muscled chest, fingertips nudging beneath the leather, brushing a taut nipple beneath the thin wool. “Are you all right?” he asks, his concern genuine.

“I’m fine.” The last word is bitten off impatiently, but Jack can hear the faint trailing off into a moan as his hand moves firmly down the Doctor’s side. It’s not a provocative movement; he means it for comfort, and there’s a moment where he feels a softening in the tense body before the tinkering starts up again. The response is softly spoken. “Busy, Jack.”

“Last time, I got a kiss,” says Jack. …cool lips, hard chest, hot hands pushing him him into the grating, and he loves it, pulling the thin body tighter against him… He leans a little closer. “I’ll settle for a hug.”

“Deaf, are ya?” The tone is chirpy, though there’s an undercurrent of something else Jack might almost call regret. “I’m workin’ here, Jack.”

Jack is opening his mouth to respond, when suddenly, the hum of the sonic screwdriver stops.

“Wha—” The Doctor smacks the sonic screwdriver against his palm as if it were a torch with loose batteries, but the blue light remains stubbornly unilluminated. “You gotta be kiddin’ me,” he mutters, flicking the switch impatiently.

Jack smiles, his hand rubbing against the curve of waist and hip. “It’s a sign.”

More muttering as the Doctor pulled himself out from under the console. “Did you do this?” he asks, pushing up on one hand.

“I hope so.” Jack is smug, fingers tightening on the Doctor’s hip.

“Yeah.” The Doctor’s face seems suddenly more vulnerable than Jack’s ever seen him. Their eye contact becomes something deeper, and Jack can feel the ambivalence — if the Doctor’s avoidance tactic was disrupted by Jack, then the Doctor’s control of the dream is slipping; if it wasn’t Jack, then the Doctor’s control of himself is slipping.

“Although maybe it is you,” suggests Jack, easing down on his hip beside him so that he is both closer and more relaxed. He knows how to put the moves on a skittish prospect, but he’s never been more careful.

“Don’t, Jack.” The protest is soft, but Jack sees steel-blue eyes turn to thunder, his head is slammed against metal so that he sees stars, a kiss that steals his breath away so swiftly and suddenly, he’s blacking out as his hands struggle for purchase on bare skin that’s become slick-hot fire, he tastes blood, copper and sulfur, he struggles for breath, his own nails and teeth are razor-sharp, rending flesh, loosing bolts of lightning, floods of fire, despair and fury—

“Stop!” The cry feels torn from a throat parched and sore, and the world reorients around eyes that feel cool and clear against his skin, soothing, though he can see shimmers of shame beneath the surface. “Don’t,” he murmurs, reaching out to cup the shorn head, thumb stroking a cheek wet with sweat and possibly tears. Though they are still sitting close, facing each other, a symmetrical yin-yang of bodies and curved legs, the close, awkward quarters of the console room has become a softer, more indeterminate place, resembling the Zero Room, but darker, like an autumn twilight. It doesn’t quite feel like ground beneath them, but there is give in the smooth surface, and a light breeze seems to be blowing, which alerts Jack that their clothes have disappeared in the whirlwind of blood and fire that is already slipping away from him.

He’s tempted to make a smart remark, to flirt, to dispel the tension, but he realizes quickly that the Doctor is making an effort to calm both Jack and himself. “Don’t be ashamed of anything,” he reiterates warmly, even though his raw throat makes his voice rough. “Don’t feel guilty. Tell me what’s going on.” He pauses, his thumb caressing the strong arch of the diamond-sharp cheekbone.

The Doctor takes a deep, tired, unsteady breath, as if he had been sobbing for hours. “It’s complicated, Jack.”

Jack has to laugh, a short, tender exhalation as he draws him into an embrace. “Yeah, well, I kind of figured that much.” He merely holds him, his hand stroking the scarred back, attempting to assuage the fine tremors; though he is not pushed away, he is not allowed in. He closes his eyes, just to take a moment for himself, but a slight movement, some sound makes him look up. Rose is standing there, looking young and sleepy, more like a child than he can even imagine her, wearing a white flannel nightgown and her ridiculous bunny slippers, rubbing her eyes with a fist.

“What’s going on?” she asks, voice small as she looks at them curiously, not a trace of the saucy minx he knows and loves, the one who would at least look a little aroused and intrigued, even if she didn’t tease. Her dark eyes are huge and innocent and a little frightened, and Doctor unwinds himself from Jack. Somehow, he is almost dressed, black jeans and black jumper, though barefoot and jacket-less with his hair looking… actually rumpled. It seems longer, softer, and he comes to Rose, who is even smaller than usual against his dark length.

“Nothing is wrong, Rose.” His voice is rich, and Jack feels a burst of anger, getting to his feet to protest.

“Don’t lie to her. Lie to me, I can take it, but don’t lie to her.”

“I’m doing it to protect her,” he says, his hand smoothing back her sleep-tangled hair from the flushed face that looks up at him in confusion and trust. She sways toward him in a way unlike Jack has ever seen her move, not that sensual, melting merging of bodies, but weightless, fragile. The Doctor bends to pick her up in his arms, and she curls into him like a toddler.

“She’s not a child.” The surge of resentment wells up in Jack as the world shifts around them, shaping subtly into the outlines if not the details of the console room.

“It’s safer for her.” The Doctor looks down at her, the hard angles of his face exaggerated by the pale, almost sickly green light that diffuses the darkness at the edges, and he sways slightly, not quite faltering, but almost as if he were rocking her.

“It’s not fair to her. You know that.”

“Maybe not.” The Doctor’s tenderness is almost overwhelming as he looks down at Rose, who is now asleep, nuzzling into the soft wool against his hard chest. “But if it keeps her safe…”

“She’s never asked for that.”

“I made a promise, though,” he croons, like a lullaby. “A promise to keep her safe, even from me. That promise is a light.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “There was no light before her.”

The Doctor turns into the darkness, as if carrying her back to her bedroom once more. The words drift back to Jack, “…and you.”

A flush of warmth chases a chill down Jack’s spine, curling around his body, and he brings his feet underneath him to rise, but somehow the floor beneath him provides no resistance. He has mass and weight but no angular momentum, and the opaqueness seems to be closing in, although there is no obvious way to gauge the distance. “Do not do this!” he rages, then forces himself to go limp, trying to find an alternative to explosive movement.

“Just let it go, Jack.” The Doctor is there — he doesn’t blink into existence or fade in, he’s just there, squatting near Jack. The jacket is back, but his feet are still bare, and there’s a softness about his face that makes Jack want to jump him and roll about like a couple of puppies.

“I can’t. I —”

The mobile right eyebrow lifts, and an almost-smile curves the soft mouth. “Do it for me, then, Jack.”

He rises with that slow grace, hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket, and the shadows gather, muting the light that darkens to the low red of closed eyelids. The borders of Jack’s vision are drawing in, extinguishing light and shadow, and what begins is a plea rises in anger, “Please don’t do this! You have no right!” And he lets loose a stream of abuse in languages he’d forgotten he’d known.

…

The soft tutting seemed to echo loudly in his head, and Jack turned, grateful for the sudden resistance of the floor and the momentum of gravity as he looked down at the Doctor, still lying in the small pool.

“Such language.” The Doctor’s voice was rough and a flicker of discomfort passed over his face as he pushed up a little higher in the water.

“Several, actually,” Jack corrected, his grin stretching his cheeks tight. The Doctor looked more vulnerable and fragile than Jack, at least, had ever seen him, but just a little less broken. He looked exhausted, but the eyes — huge in the gaunt face — were a soft, slate grey that reminded him of an autumn twilight, an analogy that comforted him strangely. “You’re awake.”

“Noticed that, didya?” The Doctor’s smile reached his eyes, despite his obvious tiredness.

“You’re awake!” cried Rose, coming in from somewhere beyond Jack’s perception, and falling to her knees beside the small pool. He was suddenly struck by how mature and womanly she was, and wondered why that should surprise him. She was smiling brilliantly, although she looked on the edge of tears, and she reached out carefully to take his hand from floating on the surface of the semi-viscous water.

“I pick companions with truly extraordinary acuity of perception,” noted the Doctor dryly, his voice still a bit hoarse, but his eyes held a soft glimmer and a combination of smugness and affectionate exasperation.

Rose bounced back up to retrieve the pitcher of water and a tumbler, while Jack scanned the Doctor with his eyes, noting that the slight blue tinge of his extremities had faded, his muscles seemed relaxed but had not lost tone, and his breathing was steady, about at his usual slow, even pace. He followed the syncopated rhythms of the double pulse up the long, exposed expanse of throat as the Doctor rested his head back on a pillow-like ledge. Jack’s fingers itched on the smooth floor.

The wide mouth quirked in an amused smile, and the glimmer in his eyes became a twinkle. “If you must, go ahead.”

Jack grinned, letting his eager fingers go to his wristcomp, and he checked all the vital signs as Rose came back to the poolside with the water. The Doctor drained one tumblerfull almost immediately, and most of another one as Jack flipped through the diagnostic modes.

“So, doctor?”

Jack lifted an eyebrow, but his grin was, if anything, wider. “Everything back to normal. Well — ” He shrugged. “Normal for you.”

“Oi, my systems are far more efficient and resilient than your so-called ‘normal’.” The Doctor’s tone was offended and his expression disdainful as he sat up in the pool, wiping the water from his face with both hands, but the twinkle never left his eyes.

Rose squealed, leaning forward to hug his neck. “Thank you, thank you!”

“For what?” asked the Doctor, affectionately confused as she pulled back to look at him.

“For giving me a little ‘Spock’.”

Jack and the Doctor both looked at her in utter bewilderment.

“Y’know, Spock and Bones and…”

The bewilderment had become befuddlement, and Rose flipped her hand dismissively, her smile still beaming. “Doesn’t matter. God, it’s so amazing to see those eyes again.” Her fingertips drew lightly down his cheek as her voice grew husky. She seemed to catch herself, but the Doctor just smiled as he folded her fingers into his hand and looked across to Jack.

Jack felt as if he were being asked a question, but couldn’t quite comprehend its meaning. The Doctor seemed relieved and let his temple rest against Rose’s, so near his, and closed his eyes. Jack was almost overwhelmed by the obvious tenderness between them — no matter how much resistance they might put up about defining their relationship in words, their bodies spoke so eloquently, and no matter how much he might desire either or both of them, Jack was loathe to disturb the delicate resonance between them. His withdrawal was subtle, almost more mental than physical as he looked down to fasten the straps of his wristcomp when long fingers closed around his forearm, just above the leather.

He looked up in surprise, his mouth feeling dry at the look in eyes that had taken on the warm liquidity of mercury. The long thumb stroked his skin, nudging beneath the leather toward the pulse on the inside of his wrist. He wasn’t sure whether he heard, or just felt the words, “I’m sorry, Jack. But thank you.”

…

Author’s note: I know it’s been months, but it wasn’t for lack of desire. It was literally lack of time. I’ve never been so busy. However, we’re in the homestretch, and I hope to be able to produce steadily, even though I’m never a speed demon.

And lookee! An actual prompt is fulfilled (the sonic screwdriver fails at the worst possible moment); although perhaps not exactly in the way intended.

Relict (9/13?, DW, 9/J/R, Teen for the moment)

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 23:27:23 GMT

Chapter One - Bazaar | Chapter Two - Maintenance | Chapter Three - Off-Balance | Chapter Four - Whirl | Chapter Five - Shadows | Chapter Six - Latency | Chapter Seven - Ritual | Chapter Eight – Unpredictable

Thanks as always to wendymr for the beta reading.

And offered as a "bon voyage" gift to honorh.

Chapter Nine – Reverberation

She saw stars when the back of her head hit something hard, but Rose was distracted immediately by the feeling of the Doctor’s body convulsing in her arms.

“Damn it!” swore Jack, and as her eyes cleared, Rose could see him untangling himself from the Doctor, just as the long body went limp once more.

Jack rolled to his feet, reaching in the pocket of his jeans for his key, and she realized that they were in the clearing where they’d left the TARDIS. It was against the panelling of the box’s exterior that she’d struck her head, but Rose was already getting her arms underneath the Doctor’s to lift him into a sitting position as Jack got the doors open. Warm golden light flowed out, and Jack turned back to them, taking a deep breath.

“Okay.” He squatted down to sling the Doctor over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, grunting a little as he straightened up. Once he got his balance, he rushed into the TARDIS, Rose hot on his heels with Jack’s discarded jacket and her shawl in her hand.

The corridor lit up before them, guiding them to an open door. Jack stopped suddenly, and Rose almost ran into his back as he shouted with a slight edge of frustration, “Medlab! Please!” He turned and headed down the corridor again, and Rose glanced in to see a perfectly empty room before rushing behind him. Another door opened, and Jack rushed in, only to find himself in the middle of the same blank, empty room.

Rose stood in the doorway, suddenly aware that she was trembling, and Jack’s voice rose, strained, “Please! Let us find the medlab!” His eyes met Rose’s for an instant before sliding away, up the slightly curved walls toward the invisible light source. “Please?”

She thought she’d seen a shimmer of tears in his eyes, but she felt her nose stinging, and perhaps the shimmer was in her own eyes. She stepped out into the hallway, looking for another doorway, but it stretched ahead, uncharacteristically straight and brightly lit and completely without doorways, not even to the console room.

“It’s not out there,” she said, stepping into the room as she caught her lower lip between her teeth to stop its trembling.

The usual background hum seemed to be softer than usual, and this room was unlike anything Rose had seen in the months she’d been on board. It was almost egg-shaped, with no completely flat surfaces, glowing white but not harsh. As her eyes adjusted, she could start to see pinks and blues in the light, and there was a faint scent of roses in the warm air.

“’S okay.” The Doctor spoke, his voice raw, and his hand patted Jack’s back weakly. “Down.”

Jack looked mutinous for a moment, and surely the Doctor could feel the resistance in his body. He slapped a bit more firmly at Jack’s rear, and Jack went carefully down on one knee. Rose rushed around to help brace the Doctor’s head and shoulders as they laid him down on the surprisingly yielding surface of the floor.

The Doctor sighed in relief, and Rose dropped to her knees beside him, wrapping the jacket in her shawl. “Do you want this for your head?”

He looked up at her with widely dilated eyes, not entirely focusing on her face, and his smile was the softest, sweetest she’d seen from him. Her heart tightened, and when he spoke, his stress-roughened voice was still warm. “Thanks.” The simple word was full of emotion, and she smiled with some relief as he let her slip the makeshift pillow under his head.

Jack had his hands on his hips, his body tense as he watched them. “Why won’t the TARDIS let us take you to the medlab?”

The Doctor closed his eyes, his body relaxing visibly. “Where I need to be,” he said softly, and Rose was stroking his hair before she realized it. He made a soft sound in his throat, almost a purr, and she smiled, stroking him again more firmly.

“Feeling better?” she asked, as Jack went down on his hands and knees on the Doctor’s other side.

“Yeah.” His eyes opened, a bit more focused. “Thanks.” He looked from Rose to Jack. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” said Jack, his smile a bit more strained than usual as he sat back on his heels and looked around the room which — even on board the TARDIS — felt bigger than the compass of its walls. “What is this room?”

“Zero room.” The Doctor’s tongue caught on his dry lips, and Rose got to her feet, ready to run for water, but a small trolley with a pitcher of water and a filled glass had appeared, next to a small bath-sized pool recessed into the curve where the wall blended into the floor. Fluffy eggshell-white towels were folded onto the second shelf of the trolley, and the Doctor rolled slightly onto his side as Rose brought the glass to him, kneeling as he raised himself onto his elbow with Jack’s help. His hand trembled slightly as he took the glass, and Rose put her fingers lightly over his to steady him as he brought the glass to his lips and drained it, stopping only to catch his breath.

“Thank you,” he said with a weak smile, letting her take the glass away as he lay back, obviously feeling the exertion. His eyes closed, and for a moment, Rose held the glass in tight fingers, almost afraid to breathe. He was so still.

She looked up at Jack, catching his concerned gaze and surreptitious check of his wristcomp. He caught her eye and shook his head slightly, clearly not finding anything in his scan. The room seemed to be getting warmer, and the pool made a soft gurgling sound as the water started to bubble and swirl, despite the lack of visible jets.

Jack checked the pulse in the long, exposed throat, making it into a caress, and the Doctor spoke hoarsely, with barely an expression altering his features. “Gettin’ a bit forward, there, Captain?”

Jack grinned, his shoulders relaxing with relief. “Yeah, you’re the one who slapped my ass a couple of minutes ago.”

“Wasn’t a slap,” the Doctor replied. “More of a spank, really.”

“Even better,” grinned Jack, and a lifted eyebrow above closed eyes was the only response. But one that made Rose feel a bit less frightened as Jack drew the backs of his fingers lightly down the Doctor’s cheek before putting a palm to his forehead. The gurgle in the pool became a brief splash, and Jack said, “Okay, Doctor, I think the TARDIS is getting impatient and wants you in that bath.”

“Yeah.” The Doctor stretched a little on the floor, obviously testing his limbs, flexing his fingers. “Okay. I’m going.” The blue eyes snapped open, a bit more focused than before, and there was a clear attempt to bound to his feet in a normal fashion. The result, however, was more of a twitch of his arms, and legs. He just managed to get an elbow under him before it slipped, and he landed awkwardly on his shoulder before Rose could catch him.

She could have sworn that the TARDIS growled, although she could not detect any change in the background hum, but Jack tutted disapprovingly. “Doctors are always the worst patients. Look, the last thing we need is you with a sprain or bone chips in a joint. Let us help you so we don’t have to do more patching up later, okay?”

The Doctor turned his usual laser-like gaze on Jack, but it was more like a torch on a weak battery, and the tense shoulders relaxed a little against the floor. He nodded slightly, and Rose moved to help Jack get him into a sitting position. Jack stripped off his jacket as she moved down to untie his boots.

A soft grunt of protest made her look up as she pulled off one boot. Jack was attempting to get the cinnamon jumper off. “Am I going to have to knock you out? ’Cause I will,” he threatened.

The Doctor met Rose’s gaze, and she was astonished by the look of anguish in his eyes before they slid away. He meekly raised his arms, and Jack lifted up the jumper about halfway before stopping dead, his face paling noticeably. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, fingertips reaching out before evading the skin, and he pulled the jumper all the way off.

“What?” asked Rose, throat tightening as she tugged off the other boot.

“Nothin’ to do with today.” The Doctor’s voice seemed stronger, but hollow, and he looked down, unsteady fingers working at the fastenings of his jeans.

Rose bit back her curiosity, taking off the thick black cotton socks as Jack slid behind the Doctor on his knees, lifting him up enough to get the jeans over his hips. She kept her eyes on the Doctor’s face, trying to judge his response and not embarrass him, but she saw no sign of shyness or shame. Relieved, she knee-walked up to his side and helped Jack work the wet denim down the long legs. Dark shorts, like the briefest of boxer briefs, slipped down to expose one sharp hipbone and clung damply enough for her to register, “Quite human, then.”

Jack took one of the long arms and placed it around his neck, getting a good grip around his ribs to help him up to walk the couple of steps to the pool.

Rose sat back on her heels as if a punch to her stomach had sapped all her energy. Despite the warmth of the room, she felt a chill in her bones.

There was a barbaric beauty to it.

Her eyes traced every curve and line in horrified fascination as she remembered all the times he had managed to keep his back to the wall, keep on a shirt even if unbuttoned, keep a layer of cloth between her hands and the abstract map of scars on his back.

A rough disk of scar tissue larger than her hand cratered his left shoulder blade, smaller droplets decorating the circumference like jewels on a crown. It reminded her of slow-motion footage of a drop of milk she’d seen on an ad once. But that pale, accidental scar shone moonlight-silver behind the bright, twisted pink ribbons that striped his back, each perfectly spaced diagonally from shoulders to hips, disappearing beneath the shorts but for a couple of tapered ends trailing across his upper thighs.

Jack eased him into the water, and the soft groan of pleasure and relief cut through her haze of disbelief and revulsion. She gathered the discarded clothing together, except for the leather jacket, and shoved it toward the far side of the room. The jacket, she folded over the handle of the trolley before moving to the side of the pool, just as the Doctor was emerging from a full immersion, resting his head against a pillow-like ledge.

“Better?” asked Jack, sitting cross-legged near his head, and the Doctor ran slightly trembling hands over his head, then down over his face, sleeking away water that seemed to be slightly more viscous than normal. Even though it was cropped so short, his wet hair made tiny little spikes that were oddly cute, and Rose smiled, sitting next to Jack.

“Better,” agreed the Doctor, voice still hoarse, eyes still dilated, but not quite so much, and he managed a small smile, reaching out one hand to Rose. “Sorry I scared you.”

She took his hand in both of hers, swallowing the lump in her throat as she felt the unaccustomed weakness in his squeeze; she returned the pressure firmly. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you going to be okay?”

He tried his usual cocky grin, but it didn’t come off as convincingly even when he said, “’Course I am. Impressive alien physiology, ’member?” He tilted his head back slightly to look up at Jack. “And thank you. Again.”

“No problem. Again.” Jack’s broad smile didn’t cover his obvious relief, and when the blue-grey eyes drifted closed again, the hand between hers relaxing, the concern came back.

A slight trace of discomfort passed over the sharp features, and the Doctor reached down to slip out of the clinging undershorts, tossing them to the side of the pool. Rose couldn’t help her eyes from sliding down from his face for a moment, her cheeks pinkening more from shame at her prurient interest than embarrassment at his nudity. Quite human. Rather impressive. Not important at the moment.

She looked up to find Jack watching her, and he just winked, putting a hand on her shoulder for the most brotherly squeeze he’d ever given her, before turning back to the Doctor. “Anything else we can do to make you comfortable?”

He shook his head against the ledge. “Nah. Just need a good soak.” He took a deep breath, adjusting his position slightly and letting his arms and legs float a little in the water. “The two of you can leave me to it.”

Rose bit her lip uncertainly as Jack took a quick look around the room. “Uh, I’m afraid you’re stuck with us. The TARDIS has taken away the door.”

Rose grinned despite herself, relieved that the decision had been taken out of their hands and amused as the Doctor managed to roll his eyes even with them closed.

“Smarter than you, this ship.” Jack grinned, moving to prop his back against the curve of the wall. He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle as he crossed his arms on his chest. “So, do you know what brought this on?”

“Yep.”

Rose felt calm enough now to glare at him as his eyes and mouth remained firmly closed. “So? Gonna share with the class?”

A flicker of pain crossed his features, and she felt immediate remorse, leaning closer with her weight on one hand. “I’m sorry, but I think we need to know.” Her voice was soft and pleading. “Is there anything we can do to stop it?”

“It’s nothing you did.” His voice was warm for all its hoarseness, and his eyes, a soft pigeon-breast blue-grey, truly focused on her for the first time since he had lost consciousness. “It was something I did.”

The weight in his quiet words settled uneasily on Rose, and she could see Jack leaning closer out of the corner of her eye. “How d’you mean?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes drifting away from her in a way that sent a shiver up her spine. There was a war; we lost. I would know; there’s no one. The echoes reverberated in her mind before he spoke, voice low and raw.

“The Janiaru were a very old race. Traders. Gifted artisans. Travelled the universe. Their ships sailed the time vortex before my people were dippin’ their toes in.” He swallowed roughly, but Rose was transfixed by the quiet rhythms of his speech. “Aliala’s family were gemstone traders and jewellers. She was just a child when they came to Mirwadi Prime, lookin’ for charimur and xelele. The Mirwadi didn’t even know it was valuable stuff in this period. Maybe not the most admirable of trading practices, but pretty effective.” He closed his eyes, long enough for Rose to start to feel concern, but as she leaned forward, he spoke again. “Archaic-era Mirwadi Prime is a long way from the epicenter of the Time War, but Janiaru was right in the middle. Just — gone.” His eyelashes fluttered slightly, and Rose wasn’t sure the wetness was entirely due to the bath. “Most of the Janiaru would have disappeared in the initial event. But out here, the waves had started to break up. Aliala and her brother survived.”

“Like the Dalek,” she murmured, without thinking, and his eyes opened to her, focused but with the same bleak pain she recalled from the bunker in Utah.

“Like the Dalek.”

He did not break her gaze, but the pause seemed interminable until he said, “Their mother and a sister died a horrible death, their bodies aging and disintegrating in convulsions.”

The panic rose in her throat until she could taste it. “Is that what’s happening to you?”

“No.” The bitterness was thick in his voice. “Not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?” asked Jack edgily.

“The mother and sister were jewellery-makers. They were working with charimur, a mineral that amplified the shock waves. It fed back on them. Aliala and Leru were left on their own.”

“They recognized you?” Jack seemed doubtful.

“Nah.” A brief wave of his hand sent a spray of water against the wall, but neither Jack nor Rose flinched. “But they knew I was a Time Lord. Aliala just wanted to ask if we could take her back to their people.” This time there was no doubt about the brightness in his eyes. “I had to tell her, there aren’t any more Janiaru. Worse than that, no one remembers them.”

“Except you.” Rose reached out for his hand, and he evaded her, pressing his hands against the bottom of the shallow pool to push himself into a sitting position.

“Yeah, except me,” he agreed, a mocking sing-song quality in his voice making her shudder. “The one who killed their family, their whole people. Ironic, innit?”

Rose caught her lip between her teeth, sharp canines biting into the flesh to cover her concern with physical pain. So much easier to deal with. But she met the challenge in his eyes, recognizing that gaze that dared her to sympathize with the monster.

“You had to do it,” she asserted, as if he had spoken the words aloud. “I know that.”

“You don’t know anything about it.” There was more strength in his voice than there had been since his seizure, but the force seemed to come from a pitying mocking that begged her to recoil. “I’ve killed more species than you lot ever knew existed. I’ve wiped out whole galaxies and time periods. History didn’t have a chance when it came up against me.”

She couldn’t hold back the tears, but the trembling was from anger and not fear. “I know you. I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you die for the history of a bunch of stupid apes. For me. I know you pushed the button or pulled the lever or whatever, but I know you only did it for the greater good. I know.”

The shock that flew across his face was followed by fear, and then sympathy as he slid closer to her in the pool, reaching out to take her hand. “Rose, I’m sorry.”

Her arms were around his neck before she could think about it, and she held onto him with all her strength. “I know how good you are,” she whispered fiercely into his ear, only then realizing that she was echoing his own words back to him. “I know you.”

His arms came around her comfortingly, and she didn’t mind the awkward position or the warm water seeping through her clothing. She was, however, concerned at the fine tremor she could still feel in his muscles, and her hand pressed over the splash of scar on his shoulder blade, almost as if covering it could make it go away.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated softly. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. But you’re wrong. Mostly wrong, anyway.”

She drew back enough to look into his eyes as his hand smoothed her hair. “What do you mean?”

“I’m no shining knight, Rose. I just had to make a decision that was bad either way. I can only hope that the destruction I caused was less than the destruction I stopped. Do you understand me?”

The sob that escaped her seemed to come up from the base of her spine, and it hurt almost as much as the pain in his eyes. “Yes,” she choked out.

“Good.” He tried to smile, and she tried not to feel as if he was pushing her away as he shifted her weight back up onto the edge of the pool, leaving her with a gentle pat of her shoulder. “You keep your eyes clear, Rose.”

“She may be seeing things more clearly than you are, Doctor.” Jack’s tone was thoughtful, but a bit provocative. “Why did you have a seizure back there?”

The Doctor slid down in the pool once more, his hands trembling slightly as they floated on the surface. “Charimur. Aliala had a necklace made out of it. With the residual vibrations left over from her brush with the Time War and so much propagating medium, it amplified enough to create feedback with my time frame. The interference is like an earthquake, happening on a quantum level.” His voice was calm. “Fantastic effect, really. Had no idea that stuff was so powerful.”

Rose brushed her running nose on the wrist of her dress, her sympathy for Aliala’s plight warring with relief that there was a concrete reason for his seizure.

“But why did you have that spell a couple of days ago, before we ever came near here?” asked Jack.

The hesitation came with a thoughtful gaze at the wall ahead of him as the Doctor slid down far enough that the water nearly touched his lower lip. “How much do you remember about the Time War, Jack?” he asked, almost casually.

Rose looked to Jack, curiously, and could see his obvious surprise as his eyebrows flew up. “Never heard of it before I met you,” he said simply. “As is, I only know there was one, your people were fighting against the Daleks, and you were somehow involved in the last battle. Whatever you did ended it. As much as you’ve let drop — which isn’t much, by the way. You have the worst way with war stories I’ve ever heard.”

The Doctor smiled ruefully at Jack’s attempted levity, his eyes still focused on a space, a time far away from them. “’S a bit boring, in reality. Except for all the death and destruction, and no one wants to hear about that. Least of all me.” Not a trace of irony or humour lightened his tone. “Death can be horribly, crushingly monotonous.” He took a deep breath and pushed up onto one elbow, twisting to look up at Jack. “I think you came closer than you know, Jack, in those two years you lost. The scars in your mind — when I looked inside, I could feel the aftershocks.”

Jack’s face paled, and he shifted his eyes quickly away, to the wall. Rose reached out to put a hand on his leg, and he opened his mouth to speak, shutting it again. He swallowed heavily, reaching down to link his fingers with Rose’s, and she squeezed encouragingly. When he finally spoke, his voice was unsteady, “You mean I did this to you?”

“It’s okay to look at me, Jack.” The Doctor’s voice warmed; he reached out to put his wet hand over theirs, and Jack looked down at him cautiously. “I was going deep when I touched the scars. I can stay away if I’m careful. And I don’t think it would have had the same effect without amplification.”

“What was amplifying it?” asked Rose, and the Doctor sat up, reaching toward her. She leaned toward him, hoping for a hug, and feeling a spark of electricity as his wet fingers lightly brushed against the bare skin of her breast above the scooped neckline of her dress. But he carefully snagged the chain of her pendant, holding it up.

“This is a Janiaru design,” he explained. “I never thought anything of it at the time. The stone probably has traces of charimur, but the spiral shape is actually four-dimensional. It’s like a rain-catcher — it can take ripples in the vortex and send them along the shape in an endless loop, until the accumulation gathers in speed and strength. It’s the same shape at the heart of their sailing ships’ engines, and a symbol of their technology and culture, kind of like the hammer and sickle became a symbol of communism on Earth in the twentieth century.”

Rose tore the necklace over her head, not caring that it snagged some hair, and threw the pendant with some force at the wall. It disappeared into the softly glowing off-white material.

“Rose, you didn’t have to throw it away,” said the Doctor with gentle reproof. “It wasn’t that strong, I could have been careful around it.”

“No,” she replied firmly, meeting his eyes. “No. And I think the TARDIS agrees with me. That thing can hurt you, and I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“So… what do we do about me?” Jack was uncharacteristically hesitant. “How careful should we be? Although, I do look terribly good in sunglasses.”

The Doctor turned back to him with a grin only slightly dimmed by his exhaustion. “Don’t have to be that careful,” he said, gesturing with one hand for Jack to come closer. Jack turned to him and leaned down, a bit hesitantly, starting as the wet hands closed around his head, long fingers almost encompassing his skull as the palms framed his face. Rose could see the lean muscles in the wiry arms tighten beneath the pale, glistening wet skin, and caught her breath at the tenderness on the Doctor’s face as he pulled Jack’s forehead against his own, blue eyes caught up in each other.

The intensity in the gaze curled taut in Rose’s belly, and she remembered their dance of last night, knowing from the softening look on Jack’s face that he was remembering, too.

“See?” The Doctor’s voice was still raw, but dark and rich as he closed his eyes and slid his forehead along Jack’s until their temples pressed together. “I know where the boundaries are.” Jack’s eyes closed, one hand coming up to brace around the Doctor’s wrist, and Rose swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I just have to stay away from those missing years. I’m sorry, Jack.”

The depth of sorrow in his voice seemed to echo in the small room.

“Why are you sorry?” asked Jack, pulling back to look at him with a tender smile, his eyes bright.

“I was hoping to be able to help you recover those memories some day.” His long thumb brushed Jack’s cheek, his fingertips dragging against the slight stubble as he lowered his hands.

“Hey, I’m just relieved that we know what was going on with you. You are going to be able to shield yourself from this now, right?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen again, unless I go looking for trouble.”

“Oh, and you’d never do that.” Rose was surprised as the words slipped out, and the Doctor chuckled as he settled back into the water.

“Nah. Doesn’t sound like me at all.”

Relict (8/13?, DW, 9/J/R, Teen for the moment)

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 12:06:11 GMT

Chapter One - Bazaar | Chapter Two - Maintenance | Chapter Three - Off-Balance | Chapter Four - Whirl | Chapter Five - Shadows | Chapter Six - Latency | Chapter Seven - Ritual

Thanks as always to wendymr for the beta reading.

Chapter Eight – Unpredictable

“I’m starting to think that the unpredictable is pretty predictable around you, Doctor.” Jack’s voice was soft and hollow, and Rose put her hand on his shoulder comfortingly.

***

“Goodnight, Jack.”

Rose’s fingers were still linked with the Doctor’s as Jack kissed her forehead goodnight outside his door. He then briefly cupped the Doctor’s cheek with his hand, their eyes meeting for a long moment, and Rose thought for a moment he was going to kiss him again. But then, Jack turned and disappeared into his room, and she was unsure how she felt about that. Watching them dance had stirred something in her, and she was surprised it hadn’t been jealousy. If Jack had got a goodnight kiss, however, she was pretty sure there would have been a bit of that, but she still found she would have enjoyed watching it. Where had that come from?

She leaned tiredly into the Doctor’s shoulder as he escorted her to her own bedroom.

“Goodnight, Rose.”

She turned to look up at him, one hand on the doorknob of her door. He looked more relaxed than he had in a while — eyes a warm, dark blue; a soft pink flush across his sharp cheekbones. Her fingers tightened on his. “Do you want to come in?” Her heart stuttered when she heard the words come out of her mouth, and his eyes dilated, reflecting her uptilted face in the black pupils as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Don’t you want to sleep?” His voice seemed to vibrate through her body, and, as tired as she was, she could feel the response tugging at her. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought there was something slightly suggestive about his tone, the look in his eyes, even the way his body seemed to relax and curve toward her.

“You didn’t get much sleep last night.” She was sincere in that concern. “Maybe it took the edge off, and you could get some real rest.”

He was silent for a moment, his thumb rubbing lightly into the palm of her hand. She’d never thought of that part of her body as an erogenous zone, but the touch was distracting as he leaned a little closer. “Rose.” The way he spoke her name always did something to her, and as he bowed his head, she thought — hoped — for a moment that he might kiss her. She stretched up toward him, and his eyes closed, lips parted…

He bowed his head, his temple pressing against hers, and she caught her breath, her free hand clutching the sleeve of his jacket as a wave of arousal, almost painful in its intensity, swept over her; but as she turned her mouth toward his, he lifted his head
to look searchingly into her eyes. She swayed toward him, and he opened his arms, taking her in a deep embrace. She bit her lip, hugging him back, feeling something like relief radiating from him. “Goodnight, Rose,” he murmured into her hair before setting her back from him without looking at her, and she leaned against the door, watching his back as he retreated down the corridor and around the curve.

She stifled the desire to stick her tongue out at him, but slammed her bedroom door behind her. If he’d been a girl — or she’d been a boy — there would be a satisfyingly coarse name she could have called him.

***

Rose awoke a bit heavily, but then she was not really a morning person. She fought her way out of the duvet and shuffled to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. By that time, she had remembered the promise of a harvest festival and had begun to perk up. From her wardrobe, she took out a dress she’d found in the wardrobe room some weeks earlier but never had the opportunity to wear. It wasn’t her usual style — almost like something a dancer would wear, simple, long-sleeved and round-necked, a jersey knit type of material with princess seams flaring to a fairly full skirt. Short, but not mini-skirt short. What had struck her eye was the pattern. Something like tie-dye, but much finer and more complex, a mottling of greens, blues, salmons, and russets, with subtle flashes of gold and cream. Those autumnal colours ought to be good for a harvest festival, she thought, and pulled on some brown tights and flat suede ankle boots. Travelling with the Doctor had made her appreciate sensible footwear.

Frustrated with her too-long fringe — she didn’t dare cut it herself, as her mum would be more than a bit cross the next time she fetched up home — she braided her hair back at the temples. The brown stone pendant hanging from its delicate chain from the corner of her mirror caught her eye, and she fastened it on, turning from side to side to get a sense of the effect. Her hands smoothed the flared skirt over her hips, and she thought maybe she should reconsider “her style”, as this accentuated her figure with flattering results.

Grabbing up her cream denim jacket, she made her way to the galley, where Jack was finishing up what looked to have been a hearty breakfast while the Doctor was leaning against the counter with a cup of tea, regaling Jack with some engineering exploit that seemed to be highly entertaining to both of them. Without missing a beat in his tale, the Doctor held her mug out to her, and she accepted gratefully, taking a sip of her favourite morning brew, rosehip and bramble tea with honey and milk. As he came to a stopping place, he turned his eyes from Jack to her, watching her as she took the first sip.

“God, you two are so cute!” Jack grinned from ear to ear as he got up from the table to carry his dishes to the dishwasher. “Do you, like, compare notes at night so you’re all set for the morning?”

The two of them looked at him in confusion, and he waved his dirty fork vaguely between them.

“Colour coordinated. Seems like nine days out of ten you’re wearing the same thing.”

She and the Doctor each looked down at their own clothes, then at the other’s, then back up for their eyes to meet as Jack cackled to himself. It was true, the deep cinnamon red of his jumper exactly matched the dominant colour splashed across the front of her dress.

“The TARDIS gave me this dress,” she said, not sure why she felt so defensive, or why her eyes slid away from the Doctor’s, her cheeks warming.

Jack closed the dishwasher, turning to face her with a suppressed smirk. “Want some breakfast, sweetheart?”

“Won’t there be food at a harvest festival?” she asked, despite her empty belly.

“Yes, of course. But just in case…” The Doctor turned and took a couple of bananas and something like an orange from the fruit bowl, tucking them into his pockets. “Ready to be off, then?”

“Hey, let a girl finish her tea first, all right?”

***

“Hold on.” Rose released the Doctor’s hand — for the first time since they’d left the TARDIS a couple of hours ago, Jack was sure — long enough to take off her jacket and tie the sleeves around her waist. It might have been morning for them, but they had arrived at their destination late afternoon local time, and the light of the large orange sun provided more heat than the crisp breeze and the sharp, cloudless, slightly lavender-tinged sky might have suggested, and they’d hiked a fair way from where the TARDIS had materialized, further up in the foothills. Jack had been glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs and breathe some natural atmosphere, and he suspected the Doctor was appreciating Rose’s slight glow of exertion and almost incessant happy chatter. Jack knew he was, particularly walking just far enough behind them to get the full benefit of the slight sway of her hips in the silky dress and the loose-limbed stride of the Doctor.

The village market was settled into a shallow, wooded depression, along a broad, but fairly docile river. Open-walled sheds with thatched roofs sheltered among the trees, displaying produce, preserves, cheeses, dried fish and meats, and assorted crafts. Rose was particularly taken by some carved wooden toys of animals, articulated like puppets, but in such a clever way that tugging a single string set them dancing, so the Doctor purchased a couple, tucking the box under his free arm while Rose hugged his other excitedly in thanks.

“I’m getting hungry,” she complained a few minutes later, looking at a generous display of pies and preserves.

“You don’t want to eat too much, there’s a feast after sundown.” The Doctor picked up one glass jar of a dark red fruit preserve, his eyebrows knitting thoughtfully as he examined the handwritten label.

“I didn’t have any breakfast,” Rose reminded him.

It took a split second for him to look up and give her one of those sudden, out-of-nowhere smiles. “So you didn’t. Right. What do you have a mind for?”

“What’s that, looks kind of like a Cornish pasty?” She pointed to a pile of crescent-shaped pies on a plate.

“Probably the local equivalent. Sir?” The Doctor caught the attention of the man in the apron working at the back of the shed, chopping vegetables as a young woman kneaded dough on the table beside him.

The man looked up to acknowledge them, then set aside his knife and wiped his hands on his apron as he came forward. As he drew closer, his salesman-eager stride and smile faltered, and he grew more wary, dark eyes searching the Doctor’s face. Jack felt the Doctor tense beside him, and Jack stepped closer behind the leather-clad shoulder, his arm dropping casually but protectively around Rose’s shoulders.

“Good afternoon, sir. What’s in that small pasty?” The tone was pleasant enough, but Jack could detect the undercurrent of disquiet.

The man replied with words which translated as lamb, potato, carrot, and blueberries in Jack’s head, and the Doctor looked to Rose, who looked up at him with a curious, “Blueberries?”

“They’re rather tart — same effect as a bit of pepper, really,” explained the Doctor, and she grinned.

“Okay. Yes, please.”

The Doctor nodded approvingly. “Lovely. Shall we have two, please?” He handed over a selection of coins, and Jack noticed the slight tremor in the stall-owner’s hands as he handed over two of the small pies wrapped in a thin mat made of roughly woven leaves like corn husks. His eyes were caught by the cessation of the rhythmic movement of the young woman’s kneading, and when he looked at her, he saw her eyes flicking curiously between the Doctor and the man who had the same dark eyes and hair and red-brown skin as she did. Her age was vague; she might have been his wife, or his daughter, but on closer inspection, Jack realized that their features and colouring were slightly different from the other softer-featured, mostly darker-skinned villagers they had seen.

With a nod and a smile, the Doctor guided his companions away from the stall to a table in a communal eating area. Jack took up a seat opposite them, while Rose sat so close to the Doctor, not a sliver of late afternoon light glowed between them. She took a tentative bite of one pasty, and her face lit up, then she tucked in eagerly.

“What was that back there?” asked Jack, leaning across the wooden table so that he could speak softly. “Did you know them?”

Rose looked from Jack to the Doctor, her cheeks stuffed with pasty like a curious chipmunk, and Jack had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at her and getting a smack or a kick under the table.

The shake of the Doctor’s head was almost imperceptible. “No. But they’re not Mirwadi.”

“On this planet at this time in history? Who are they, then?” Jack sneaked a corner of Rose’s second pasty, and made a small sound of pleasure in the back of his throat. “Other than first-rate pie-makers?”

“Janiaru.”

Jack tilted his head, feeling as if he had water blocking one ear. The TARDIS’s translation circuit seemed to have cut out suddenly. “Never heard of them.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t have done,” said the Doctor with that forced brightness, his eyes stormcloud blue even as he grinned at Rose and reached around her to steal a part of the pasty Jack had already despoiled. She slapped the back of his hand, but put her hand over her mouth for good manners as she laughed as his exaggerated show of passing the bit of pie from one hand to the other around her before popping it into his mouth.

Jack knew that his curiosity was destined to remain unsatisfied for the time being, and so he gave into their usual playful banter.

***

They took a turn around the large, intricate structure of wood taking shape in the center of the market. Men were stacking logs like some sort of abstract pick-up sticks game, and women were weaving dried plants into elaborate shapes that filled in the spaces.

“What’s that for?” asked Rose, idly running her pendant up and down along its chain as they watched an agile little boy scramble up to anchor a streamer of flowering vines at the apex of the rough pyramid.

“Bonfire,” explained the Doctor succinctly, and she looked up at him, faintly distressed.

“They’re doing all this just to burn it?”

“’Course. It’s a fairly common ritual of most agrarian societies. Some sort of sacrifice is given in thanks for the bounty of nature. The Mirwadi are animists, and burning the vines and stalks and such is like shearing the wool-bearing animals or letting a field lie fallow — it’s ‘destruction’ or ‘waste’ that makes things healthier, and they put some of the vegetables and meat into the various hollows in the framework, in effigies or models of the animals or plants they want to flourish the next year.”

“Isn’t that a waste of food?” she asked, chewing thoughtfully on the finding of her pendant.

“Nope.” The Doctor grinned. “It’s the feast for later. Oi, don’t do that.” He crooked a finger beneath the pendant to take it out of her mouth, like a parent with a toddler, but instead of the cheeky grin and tongue-poking Jack expected, Rose’s eyes locked with the Doctor, warm and compliant as she brushed her lower lip lightly against the side of his finger. From slightly behind the Doctor, Jack could see only the tension across the sharp rise of his cheekbone, and a dark reflection of the invitation in Rose’s eyes.

For a moment, Jack forgot to breathe. He’d witnessed, been a party to, some of the most overt sexual experimentation in any century, any culture, primitive or so-called civilized (usually the most depraved end of the spectrum, in his experience), but time and again, the innocent eroticism of his two travelling companions threatened to overwhelm him. How did the man, Time Lord or not, resist?

“It’s delicate,” explained the Doctor softly, and Jack had to consciously re-orient his brain synapses to understand that as a comment about the necklace.

“Right,” murmured Rose, looking away with a bit of embarrassment, a touch of disappointment, and a fair helping of frustration. Jack briefly considered substituting the flowering fruit vines for silk rope in his usual “tying them together” fantasy, then stepped forward to take Rose’s hand and pull her off to a stand selling embroidered shawls as a distraction. If the Doctor lost a step or two following them, it was his own damned fault.

***

Rose pulled the gold-embroidered russet shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She didn’t need the warmth, as the bonfire blazing in the centre of the clearing provided more than enough heat. But she took pleasure in the sensation of the silky wool against her upper back, bared by the dress, and she bounced on her heels to the simple, infectious beat of the small ensemble playing up a storm. Drums, bagpipes, flutes, and an assortment of jangly percussion whipped the dancers circling the bonfire into a frenzy. She bounced her heels lightly against the packed dirt, feeling the light shocks run up her body, and the desire to join the dancing seemed to seep into her bones.

She had noticed more than one couple slipping off into the forest, and she was amused that Jack was still prominently visible, cavorting with some of the village maidens. It was only a matter of time, she supposed, and without thinking, she turned to see the Doctor, leaning against a tree behind her, arms folded across his chest. She could feel the impact of his gaze almost physically, and she found herself crossing the few feet to him, holding both hands out to him.

“Care to dance?” she asked, knowing her voice couldn’t be heard over the skirling music, but his eyes were hot blue in the firelight as he pushed off the tree with his shoulder and put his hands in hers. With a surge of elation, she turned to pull him into the circle of dancers.

The steps were easy enough, though the intricate weaving of the partners’ arms had them bumping awkwardly a couple of times. Rather than breaking the spell, their laughter added to their exhilaration, and Rose tilted her head back, laughing in sheer pleasure as they negotiated the individual spinning correctly for the first time, ending up with their linked arms wrapped one around her waist, the other over their heads as they spun together. Giddy, she was nonetheless highly aware of the lean strength of his hip and thigh against her.

The change of rhythm caught them flat-footed for a moment, and they stumbled, laughing, into the next dance, trying to catch up to the twining concentric circles of dancers that braid like the vines around the bonfire. Rose realized with a twinge of regret that the pattern was one that would lead to the switching of partners, as the men on the inner circle traced a pattern around the women on the outer circle before the circles moved in contrary motion.

Still, the dance went on, and Rose threw herself into it with abandon, her eyes meeting the Doctor’s almost every turn and bow until he had passed around the curve of the fire from her.

“Hello, sweetheart! Having a good time?” Jack’s teeth flashed in the firelight as he caught her up in his arms, spinning her around.

“Fantastic!” The word slipped unself-consciously from her lips as she twitched the fullness of her skirt flirtatiously and performed a stamping step she’d seen some of the other women doing.

Jack laughed, and he clapped his hands to the rhythm as they circled each other, back to back, then side by side before parting. The rhythm of the dance grew faster and faster until the music seemed to reach a frenzy, and the central section of the bonfire collapsed with a huge column of fire blazing up into the night sky. The dancers stopped applauding wildly, and Rose looked around to find Jack, hugging a plump village woman with more than a little intent.

Grinning, she made her way through the surging crowd to stand behind the woman, raising an eyebrow at Jack’s enthusiastic embrace, and he merely smirked at Rose, rocking the woman, who didn’t seem particularly inclined to let him go, either. Rose winked, crossed her arms on her chest and tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking around for the Doctor. He was taller than most of the locals, and like herself and Jack, fairer than most, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Leaving Jack to his own devices for a moment, she made her way around the circle, looking out for him. It was only when she saw Jack again, kissing the plump woman before turning his attention to another, more statuesque beauty, that she realized she’d completed the circuit of the bonfire.

“Where is he?” she wondered out loud, noting that their packages with the toys and her jacket were still bundled under the tree where he’d been standing.

“Jack?” she ventured to interrupt. “I can’t find the Doctor. I’ve been all around the bonfire…”

“Perhaps your friend has gone into the forest,” said the plump woman with obvious sympathy. “It is the night for it.”

“Anyone else, and I’d agree with you, Milvet,” said Jack, taking a look around himself. “But believe me, sweetheart, we’ve both been trying to ‘take him into the forest’ for ages, and he’s not having any.” The women looked a little startled at Jack’s comment, and Rose began to feel a bit unsettled as Jack gave each of them a brief kiss on the forehead, then grabbed her hand and dragged her around the bonfire for another look.

“He wouldn’t have gone off without us,” asserted Rose, the force of her voice intended to reassure herself. It wasn’t working.

“Nah, of course not.” Jack didn’t sound any more convinced than she felt, peering into the shadows of the forest. “It’s not like there’s any mechanical doohickeys around to catch his attention.”

“Mechanical doohickeys,” she repeated with a stifled giggle. “Is that a technical term?”

“Well, not as technical as thingummy.” Jack’s grin was a little forced.

“Or jiggery pokery,” she agreed, her heart tightening with the memory. She wasn’t afraid yet, but the little hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.

They continued to weave among those still milling around the bonfire — mostly older people, children, and a few unmatched younger folk — hands tightening their clasp as they searched. Rose felt her throat tighten, and she echoed it with her fingers, but Jack’s hand was too square, his fingers too thick as she threaded hers through them. She untwined their fingers with a little shudder, clasping her fingers around his palm instead.

“Oh, look at her,” murmured Jack, and Rose turned to follow his gaze instinctively, though with a surge of frustration at his wandering eye. But she realized almost immediately that this was not his usual hunting behaviour. A young woman was moving around the outer circle of the bonfire, her casual movements not masking a trembling in her limbs or the ashy cast under her red-brown skin. She was small and slender, her black hair in several thick braids, and she was wearing a traditionally embroidered dress similar to Rose’s shawl. It took a moment, but Rose realized she was the young woman from the pie stall, and when her darting eyes caught them, she started to run.

Without a word or a glance, Jack and Rose were after her and caught up with her among the stalls. She backed herself defensively against the closed awning of one, and Jack held his hands up and out.

“We’re not going to hurt you.” His voice was low and soothing. “But we’re looking for our friend. Tall as me, but about half as wide, leather jacket, ears?” He flicked his own ears with his forefingers. “You saw him today when we bought pasties. Did you see him tonight?”

The young woman — a girl, really, not much older than Rose herself, twined her fingers in a necklace made of roughly shaped stones. “I didn’t hurt him,” she promised, looking like she was about to cry. “I— I just wanted to talk to him. I didn’t touch him.”

Rose felt her stomach roil at the words, realizing that, underneath the vagueness, something had indeed happened to the Doctor, and Jack’s voice was sharp, a bit shrill when he demanded, “Where is he?”

“He—” She stopped, closing her dark eyes for a moment, even though it was so dark in this deserted part of the market that it was difficult for Rose to see her expressions clearly. “We went into the forest. I left him there.”

“Where? Show us!” Jack grabbed her arm and pulled her sharply toward him, but Rose put her hand on his arm, protesting.

“Don’t scare her, Jack. I don’t think she meant any harm. But please?” Tears filled her own eyes as she turned them to the young woman. “Please, take us to him. What happened?”

“I don’t know!” The young woman’s wail seemed to rise on Rose’s own panic. “We were talking, and he just—”

“Just what?!” Jack made a fist at his side, and the young woman flinched, raising her arm protectively. He took a deep, unsteady breath, relaxing his hand and shoulders deliberately. “Please, take us to him. Let us help him. We just want to find him. Is he all right?”

She lowered her arm tentatively. “I didn’t touch him,” she repeated, her voice breaking. “He just — fell. As dead. But still alive. Possessed!”

“Oh, God!” Rose covered her mouth with her hand, and Jack swore softly. She knew the same image of the Doctor fitting on the grating of the TARDIS console room was playing in his mind.

“He’s not possessed, he’s ill, we must find him.” Jack’s voice was soft as he took the young woman’s hand. “What’s your name?”

Rose wanted to shriek in frustration at Jack’s patience, even though she was grateful for it.

“Aliala.”

“Aliala, please take us to him. We can help him.”

Rose wasn’t so sure about that as Jack, but all she wanted was to find the Doctor, and it was almost more than she could bear to follow the wary Aliala’s tentative pace.

“Aliala, please.” Jack was clearly as frustrated as she was. “We must move faster.”

Aliala quickened her pace slightly toward the bonfire, then striking out into the forest. Rose could hear the unmistakable sounds of sex in the distance, but her ears were trained for some sound of the Doctor. Their guide stopped, looking around in the near darkness for a moment. Only then did Jack seem to think of taking a small torch from his pocket, shining the light ahead as Aliala took them to a trampled nest of large ferns. Clearly, someone had been there, but she looked around, confused. “He was here,” she claimed, defensively, and even before she was finished, Jack and Rose were calling his name, moving through the trees to find him.

She was on her knees before she realized it, falling across his body, and Jack was on the ground beside her, torch in his teeth, as he pushed her off the still figure almost roughly in his eagerness. She scrambled out of the way, hands reaching for the cold, pale face, half-turned into the dirt.

“Don’t move him yet!” cried Jack, handing her the torch. “He might have broken something.” He was panting as he pushed back his jacket sleeve to get at his wristcomp, and a pale blue cone of light scanned the long body sprawled on the forest floor. “Yeah, okay, nothing’s broken. Let’s get him on his side. He might have vomited when he seized.”

Rose’s hands were trembling, but she had no idea she was sobbing until they had got the Doctor’s considerable dead weight and awkwardly long limbs arranged on his side. Jack checked his mouth and throat with a finger, then sighed with relief, looking up at Rose to put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s breathing, Rose. Both hearts are beating. He’s just unconscious, okay?”

“No, it’s not bloody okay, he’s had another fit and he’s unconscious!” she shouted angrily, barely feeling Jack’s hand stroking her hair as she slid down behind the Doctor, embracing him from behind as she brushed the dirt from his cooler-than-usual cheek. Despite Jack’s assurances, her unsteady fingers sought the pulse points in his long throat, and she laid her cheek against his, temple to temple, willing him to wake up.

Pressed against him, she could feel that he was not exactly limp, nor was he stiff, his muscles locked in fine seizure, and Jack sat back on his heels helplessly, running his fingers through his hair.

“What happened? What were you talking about when this happened?” His words cut through her fog, and both Rose and Jack looked around and realized Aliala was nowhere to be seen.

“Can’t blame her,” Jack said tenderly, his big hand curving to the Doctor’s cheek as Rose rested her forehead against the soft stubble on the back of his head. Jack’s thumb brushed more dirt from the high cheekbone. “You must have scared the hell out of the poor girl. You sure have us.” He bent down to kiss the pale face.

“Mmmph — sh — sha.” Jack and Rose both sat bolt upright at the soft protest, and Jack reached for the abandoned torch, shining it onto the Doctor’s face.

“Mmm — ah!” The long hands reached up weakly, and Jack deflected the light across the Doctor, rather than directly into his eyes.

“Sorry,” he apologized, a bit sheepishly. “A bit too eager to see those baby blues. Can you hear me, Doc?”

Even in the indirect light, Jack got a good glare, and he grinned unrepentantly. “Good. If you’re okay enough to be pissed off, that’s a very good sign.”

Rose felt the knot in her chest ease just a little bit, and she fell on his chest, hugging him fiercely. This time, the comforting hand in her hair was long and slender and unsteady, with shaking fingers, and it felt like the most wonderful thing she’d ever experienced.

“You might want to let him breathe,” Jack commented wryly, and Rose brushed tears from her hot cheeks as she sat up.

“Can you breathe?” she asked the Doctor with concern, and his widely dilated eyes struggled to focus on her for a moment, even as he smiled and patted his own chest rhythmically.

“Good.” She laughed through her tears, and his head fell back against the mat of leaves and ferns, eyes closing. “No!” Panic rose in her throat, but his hand found hers, tightening slightly, and Jack reached across to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly.

“I think he’s just weak from the seizure.”

“Yeah.”

Jack’s relief was as evident as her own at the Doctor’s hoarse whisper, and Jack moved to straighten out the long legs. Rose reached down to help, pulling her hand back in shock as she realized his jeans were wet. The ground was not damp, and as she realized the extent of his loss of control, her heart tripped. Jack said nothing but stripped off his own jacket to cover the Doctor’s hips and legs. Away from the fire and the exertion of dancing and panic, Rose was beginning to feel the autumnal chill, but she took off her shawl, folding it to make a pillow. As she lifted the Doctor’s head to slip the shawl beneath it, the pale eyes opened, almost colourless in the light of several small, silver-white moons.

“TAR’sss.” The word was indistinct but unmistakable.

“We’re a good two hours’ walk away,” said Jack, checking his wristcomp again. He hesitated for a moment, then punched a few buttons. “Look, this isn’t manufacturer-recommended operation, but I think this qualifies as an emergency. Rose, can you get under his head a bit more and hold him still?”

Jack helped Rose lift the Doctor’s head and shoulders so that she could sit cross-legged underneath, cradling him in her lap.

“This transporter is only built for one,” he explained, looking at both of them. “But I think we can get there safely if we hold on tight. I just can’t predict what kind of landing we’ll have.” He took a deep breath and looked down. “I’m starting to think that the unpredictable is pretty predictable around you, Doctor.” Jack’s voice was soft and hollow as his fingertips traced the gaunt face, and Rose reached out to put her hand on his shoulder comfortingly.

Jack lay down on the forest floor, his body pressed to the Doctor’s side, leg curving over his hips. He got one arm underneath him, against Rose’s knees, and reached across his chest to his wristcomp. “Everybody ready?”

He tapped the red button.

"…in the Shade" (DW, 9/R, Adult)

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 03:35:12 GMT

Title: …in the Shade
Author: nina_ds
Rating: Adult (my first real go…)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, just playing.
Author's notes: So, amberfocus requested "lusty!Nine" and I'd just watched Elizabeth, so I was in a suggestible state. I don't really know where this came from, though a slight homage to/dig at a certain age-old fanfic cliché may be found within. And thanks, as always, to wendymr for beta-reading and Brit-picking. I still get lost in Louisiana, occasionally.

…in the Shade

“Agh!”

The shriek caught in her throat as she bolted upright, knocking over the glass on the small table beside her, and somehow her sunglasses flew off, allowing her to glare full force at the grinning Time Lord, giving her a wide berth as he came around in front of her. “Ha—” she gasped, reaching around to pull the wet knit of her top away from her back.

The twinkle in his eyes, as blue as a summer sky back home and as bright as the white sun above them, was framed by the starburst of laughlines she saw far too infrequently. His laugh was as genuine as any she’d ever heard from him, coming up from somewhere deep inside him, and if the ice cube down her spine had not taken her breath away, the freedom in the lean line of his body would have. Without thinking, she reached for an ice cube swimming in the remains of her drink and threw it at him. With a superior smirk and gangly grace, he sidestepped and turned, the ice flying past the small of his back to land in the fine, pale blue-green grass that stretched out like a sea before her.

While she had opted for a white tank top and her denim mini-skirt, he had actually conceded to the bright heat of this world. The battered leather jacket was gone, a dark green t-shirt blowing against his narrow, muscular torso in the breeze and lighter-and-tighter-than-usual jeans giving her a better sense of his hips and thighs than she normally got. Without the jacket, he was thinner than she’d imagined, but there was roundness where roundness was desirable; quite desirable, actually. Something about his bare arms seemed almost unbearably naked, the meandering lines of cord-like veins giving an odd vulnerability to the wiry muscles.

“You just gonna sit there like a lump?” he asked, rubbing his hands together as he walked up the slight rise of the sandy mound where she’d set up her chaise-longue and table, underneath the spreading branches of a large, oak-like tree — well, oak-like except for the blue-green leaves and deep red budding nuts.

His feet were bare. Long, narrow feet; long, slender toes curling into the fine, pinkish-gold sand. Oh, God, what was wrong with her that seeing his bootless feet suddenly seemed like the sexiest thing she’d ever seen?

“It’s cooler here in the shade,” she retorted.

“So, you’re just going to lie here and drink lemonade and read a trashy novel when you could be explorin’ the forest, or comin’ with me to the village?” As he spoke, he moved closer, his long legs straddling the end of the chaise.

“Hey, this ‘trashy novel’ came from your library,” she pointed out, using a casual wave of her hand to disguise her intentions. She let her hand fall into the spilled drink — mostly water now that the ice was melting — then flicked the cold liquid at him.

“’Ey!” he protested, dropping down in a playfully predatory crouch, his hands on either side of her.

His cooling shadow crept over her, but she felt her mouth go dry as he paused, hands on the arms of the lounger, blue eyes blazing out of the shade, clear as cool water, hot as the white sun…

“Come with me,” he urged, voice rumbling deep in his chest, and she thought wildly that that might be a distinct possibility if he didn’t back off.

Suddenly, with a gleeful grin, he was flicking some of the icy water at her himself — When had he moved? How had she missed it? — and he reached down with cold, wet hands to grab her bare knees and pull her sharply toward him. “C’mon, lazy!”

Her cry of surprise fell to shocked silence as she found herself flat beneath him, her skirt rucked up beneath her bum, the breeze warm on her bare thighs. She wondered for a brief moment whether she was wearing the pink cotton knickers or the white ones with the little yellow flowers but his eyes never left hers, even as his fingertips whispered up the outsides of her thighs.

“Why don’t you stay here with me instead?”

Who said that?

The blue eyes dilated sharply, and somehow the words that had slipped out emboldened her as she reached up to put one hand on his chest, over his hearts. The syncopated thump was reassuringly strong, encouragingly swift, and she moved her hand slightly, feeling the rasp of hair beneath the thin cotton, the shallow curve of muscle. The intimacy of the touch slid under her skin, spreading like honey through her veins, and all motion seemed to stop. This world ceased spinning as its heat flowed into her, pooling in the pit of her belly.

His nostrils flared delicately, and his lashes dropped heavily to filter the blue of his eyes as his fingers encountered the narrow cotton bands on her bare hips. A soft whimper in her throat brought his eyes sharply back to hers, and her tongue darted out, sticking briefly on her dry lower lip.

He reached out beyond her vision, as she could not tear her eyes away from his, and he brought his wet fingertips to her lips, cool and faintly sharp-sweet as they traced her mouth. She closed her lips instinctively on his fingers, tasting the faint reminiscence of lemon as she sucked his first two fingers into her mouth.

His eyes escaped hers to follow the slip and slide of his fingers into her mouth, her tongue between them, and a low growl, almost a purr, rumbled in his chest beneath her hand. The thin cotton barrier was no longer acceptable, and she reached down to grab the hem of his t-shirt, pushing it up with hands hungry over his skin, cooler than hers but still warm to the touch.

He shivered as her fingernails dragged lightly up his back, encountering the grooves of his ribs and following them around his body, up to scrape across the taut nipples. He moaned, his head dropping, and she lifted her chin for his kiss.

But his cheek brushed hers as he buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, nuzzling up the side of her throat. His teeth grazed her skin, sharper than she’d expected, and she gasped, finally releasing his fingers, which slid wetly across her cheek, curving beneath her neck. His nose probed the sensitive hollow behind her ear, a surge of heat coursed through her body, and she moaned, arching beneath him. She sought the weight of his body, but he held himself just above her as his teeth scraped across her pulse point, provoking a soft shriek and a throb of pleasure that she felt to the tips of her fingers and toes. She felt the liquid response soaking her knickers, hot against her skin, and as his tongue prepared the path for his teeth, down over her collarbone, she moaned, her feet bracing against the chaise-longue, toes curling around the tubing of the frame.

He pressed his open mouth against her skin, a moan passing into a low growl that shot right through her blood. His big hand slid down over her shoulder, over her breast, pausing a moment to shape and squeeze gently through the tank top and her sports bra, before following the curve of her waist and hip. She made a soft sound of frustration, unsure whether she wanted him to linger at her breast or get on with the getting off of her knickers, and he chuckled, his mouth moving down to cover her other breast, tongue teasing her nipple through the layers of material as his hands smoothed down her hips, rolling the knickers down.

She drew her knees up, and he straightened, kneeling on the chaise to pull the bunched scrap of material off her legs. With her legs poised straight in the air, the warm breeze felt cool against the wet heat of her exposed flesh. For a split second, she considered feeling embarrassed about her compromised modesty, but when his big hands curved around her ankles, smoothing down her upraised calves, she forgot any shyness in the blue of his eyes. He parted her knees, sliding down to lie between her legs as he pushed up her top to press his mouth against her bare stomach, just above her navel. His hands found her breasts, thumbs caressing through the fabric as he rested his weight on his elbows and nuzzled downward, his tongue darting into her navel, then returning when she giggled and squirmed, raising her hips against his chest.

He blew his cool breath across her wet skin, and her fingers tensed on his head, his short hair too short to grab. With a soft growl of frustration, she grabbed his ears and pulled him up enough to get hold of the back of the t-shirt. He grinned and reached back to help her pull off the shirt, tossing it away somewhere in the grass, but she got little chance to admire the wiry torso before he was sliding down, his arms curling around her thighs, pushing them further apart as his hands smoothed the bunched denim out of his way.

She almost thought she could feel the intensity of his gaze, blooming under the heat, and she whimpered as he bowed his head, riffling through the soft, dark hair with his nose, inhaling her scent. She could see his eyes close, the pleasure he took in her evident in the softening of his sharp features, and that unexpected tenderness seemed to release another flood, literal and metaphorical. He hummed softly, his cheek rubbing against her inner thigh like a cat seeking a caress as he brought his thumb and forefinger down to open her wide. The combination of smooth skin and slight stubble against her skin set off a trembling contraction, and he made a soft sound of approval as he bowed his head and extended his pointed tongue.

The first touch was further back than she had expected, firm and deep, and she cried out, toes curling into the smooth skin and taut muscles of his back. His tongue gathered the honey-thick fluid as it moved upward, almost there… and then he drew back, turning his head just enough for his short, soft hair to tickle her other thigh, his tongue retracing the path but with the pressure against a different set of nerve endings. “Oh, God!” she gasped, longing to curl up and watch him, but unable to fight the instinctive arch of her back.

His tongue dipped and probed, tracing delicate arches and folds, pressing and teasing. His nose brushed against her, and she could feel him breathing in deeply. A low moan shuddered through her, interrupted by a nearly silent cry as his teeth nipped at the bud of nerve endings at the apex of her folds. He barely touched her, but the surprise set off an orgasm that slammed through her pelvis, then radiated throughout her body. He stopped for only a moment, then dove in again with teeth and tongue, sliding two long fingers in to give her something to contract against. He kept her on edge for what seemed like an eternity.

Pleasure verged on pain, and suddenly he moved away, his wet mouth exploring her trembling belly almost soothingly. Panting, she slid her fingers over his soft hair as his thumb circled above her clit, and his teeth nipped lightly at her hipbone, dragging along the curve of her waist. He nuzzled under her top, pushing up her sports bra to free her breast, his mouth finding the aching nipple.

Another flush of heat spread through her body, and she bore down on his fingers once more, her hands cradling his head. He suckled strongly, even as he teased lightly with his tongue, massaging with his mouth and jawline as his free hand came up to bare her other breast.

What he was doing was doing wonders for her, but as she started to gather her brain cells back together, she pulled on his sharp shoulders, urging him up with a soft, “C’mere.”

He took the scenic route, lavishing attention on her other breast before making his way up over her collarbone and up the opposite side of her neck. Finally, she could reach between them, finding that the button of his jeans was already undone. She pushed down the zip, and he balanced his weight on his knees and elbow, his temple against the canvas beside her ear as he freed himself from his clothing. She used her feet to help shove the jeans and what felt like briefs down over his hips and bum.

She turned her face to his, and his tender smile sent another flush of pleasurable heat through her as his long body rested against hers for the first time. He brought a hand up to brush the stray strands of hair away from her sweaty face, his eyes seeming to see everything as he let her adjust to his weight. What she could feel against her belly was remarkably human, perhaps a bit heavier with a more pronounced throb, echoing his hearts beating against her breast. The tip was slick and relatively cool, and she asked breathlessly,

“Is it safe?”

“DNA’s incompatible,” he murmured, bending his head to kiss her mouth for the first time.

Relief and regret mingled briefly for a moment before she was lost in his kiss, fingers clinging to the sharp blades of his shoulders as his tongue slid against hers. She could taste herself strongly, and she searched out his own flavour as he moved his hips down, sliding into her.

She was ready enough that her body accepted him with little resistance, but the difference in temperature was surprisingly noticeable, sending a shiver of sensation over her skin. He lifted his head to watch her carefully as he drew back before pressing back in, a bit more firmly, his hips curving up at the end.

She gave herself over to the rhythm, but it wasn’t an unconditional surrender. Her hands reached down to grip his flexing bum, urging him on as she raised her hips to meet him; her knees crept up toward his ribs, and he reached down to sling her knee over one arm, opening her wider. Assured that she was with him, he bowed his head to take her mouth once again.

They built a crescendo that lifted her further than she’d been, further than she’d expected. He varied the depth and angle, holding deep at times, setting off pulses within her that sent shocks to the base of her spine. It was strange, it was a little uncomfortable on the flimsy lounger, and she desperately wanted to flip him over and change the angle, surprise him, but she knew they’d take a dangerous spill if she even tried. He lifted his head, eyes twinkling as he lifted further on his knees, changing the angle and tempo, causing her to laugh out loud.

Her second orgasm was slower, more profound, her ankles locking in the small of his back as his thrusts became shorter and deeper. His arms slid around her, holding her closer to the cool heat of his hard body as he gasped and shuddered, losing himself in her.

***

“Are we going to talk about this?”

“Do we need to?” He tugged his jeans up around his hips and swung his long legs over the edge of the chaise-longue, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Are we going to just pretend like it never happened, then?” Rose tugged her top back into place

“Do you want to?” His eyebrows furrowed almost defensively, as if the thought was painful, his shoulders rising, blades sharp against his pale skin.

“No,” she said tentatively, smoothing her skirt down over her hips a bit compulsively, wondering whether to go looking for her knickers. She pressed her knees together, curling her legs to the side as she rested her weight on one hand, using the forefinger of her other hand to pull a stray strand of hair out of her mouth.

“No?” She wasn’t sure whether his tentative echo was regret or encouragement, and he looked down at his big hands hanging between his knees, rubbing his thumb into the palm of his opposite hand. The curve of his back was so tense, she could see the outlines of the thin muscles, the knobs of the vertebrae at the nape of his neck painfully exposed.

“It was really nice,” she said, shrugging slightly. “Better than nice.”

“Really?” He looked up suddenly, hopefully, and she couldn’t restrain a grin. Sometimes he was like a child, responding so swiftly and fully to his emotions.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, laughing. “Fantastic, even.”

“Well, I thought so.” His broad grin was completely at odds with the casual shrug, and she rolled up onto her knees, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to the sharp rise of a cheekbone. He laughed, turning to wrap his arm around her waist, holding her tightly to his side.

“Can we do it again?” she asked, pulling back, and he looked up at her with a definite shimmer of heat in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah.”

She bowed her head to kiss him, gasping softly as one big hand smoothed down over her back and bum, coming back up underneath the skirt to caress warm, bare skin. He chuckled into the kiss as she shivered in pleasure, then gasped when the long fingers curled around her thigh. She should be embarrassed by the stickiness, the mess, but he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he murmured softly. “Don’t even try.”

“What?” she whispered, almost automatically. She was more interested in the splash of gold in the iris of his right eye that she’d never noticed before.

“Don’t be shy with me, Rose, it’s not necessary.” He kissed her softly, his fingertips caressing her intimately, but soothingly. “The Marupai particles won’t even allow it, anyway, so why waste the energy?”

“Marupai particles?” She drew her fingertips through his hair, massaging his scalp, and his eyes slitted with pleasure, but far be it for him to forego a chance to give her a tidbit of information about the local biosphere.

“It’s the combination of nitrogen radicals in the atmosphere and the pollen from the Marupai trees.” He looked up to indicate the tree above them.

“What won’t they allow?”

“Guilt. Shame. All those wasteful emotions that stop you ape-types from responding to your natural instincts and pheromones.”

She tightened her fingers on his head, suddenly paying attention. “It’s an aphrodisiac?”

“No, not really.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Just uninhibits your inhibitions.”

“So… you knew this planet would have this effect?” She sat back on her heels.

His ears pinkened, but he didn’t say anything.

Her eyes narrowed warily at him. “You brought me here, right here to this tree, knowing that the atmosphere had this effect on humans?”

“It doesn’t make you do anything you didn’t already want to do,” he said defensively. “It doesn’t make you feel anything any differently. It just — makes you more aware of what you already feel, and anyway—”

She put her hand over his mouth, stopping the flow of explanation. “Just answer me one question,” she interrupted forcefully.

He nodded, and she slid her hand away, her fingertips lingering against his parted lips.

“Can we take some of these Marupai particles with us?”

He laughed, drawing her across his lap as his shoulders relaxed. “Do you think we need to?”

She couldn’t wipe the grin from her face, and she didn’t care that her cheeks were a little burnt or that she was more than a little sticky and sweaty. The sense of liberation was exhilarating. “Nah, I s'pose not. They’ve done their job.” Wrapping one arm around his neck, she looked up at the branches swaying in the breeze above her. “Thanks, guys!”

Fic: À Deux

Thu, 15 May 2008 19:43:01 GMT

For the sake of completion, here's my entry in the hearts_in_time Run! ficathon.

Title: À Deux
Author: nina_ds
Rating: Teen (Honestly, I tried, they just went all shy on me in the end!)
Gift for: prchung
Beta: wendymr (Great thanks, as ever!)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, just playing.
Summary: In which a simple visit home after the events of "The Long Game" becomes a series of unexpected challenges for our intrepid duo, Rose proves resourceful with the tools of her trade, and much mock is made of the Doctor's driving. It's compliant with "Father's Day", but somewhat pre-empts "The Doctor Dances".
Warnings: Skirts perilously close to songfic in a couple of places, but the songs made me do it.
Prompt: At end to avoid spoilage.

À deux

The plastic seat is unyielding beneath her, and the fluorescent lights harsh after the misty darkness, now lumbering by outside windows clouded by condensation. Leather brushes against the bare skin of her shoulder, and she can feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise as her body reacts to the accidental touch. She can feel his tension radiating like heat from his body. Her eyes slide cautiously to him, the cut of his cheekbone like diamond in the hard light. The shadow moves along his jaw as the muscles tighten.

She closes her eyes, the bumptious motion of the bus distantly familiar, in odd counterpoint with the music blasting from the boombox in the back. It’s only been a few months, but it feels like a lifetime ago that she travelled like this on a daily basis. The song’s riff gets under her skin like itching powder, igniting a pulsating series of images and sensations lingering on her skin, behind her eyelids…

Dig, if you will, the picture…

Eyes like crystals of ice, clear and brilliant, reflecting her as she leans breathlessly over him, lips parted, hands trembling…

“Quick, off!” Her hands skim along his ribs as she pushes up his jumper, jerking it over his head triumphantly, even as she shivers slightly in the chill in only her lacy bra…

The sweat of your body covers me…

His big hands steady her hips, his long thighs taut between hers. His cool breath strokes her cheek…

His long thumb brushes the skin of her belly…

Feel how it trembles inside…

He lifts his thighs sharply beneath her bum, and her breath catches in a soft shriek as the shift of angle sends a shockwave of warm pleasure radiating through her body…

Their eyes lock.

They feel the heat, the heat between me and you…

***

Three hours earlier

She held the large, ornate gold earring to her ear and giggled. Definitely not her style. Nor, really, were the black satin and velvet peasant skirt and and blouse she’d found, rooting around in the wardrobe while the Doctor fussed with the TARDIS. He was still in a bit of a black mood — well, dark grey — after dumping Adam at home with his ventilated head, and Rose had thought that, discretion being the better part of valour, she should probably let him blow off some steam with his favourite pastime. She was still glowing, on a high from his declaration, “I only take the best. I’ve got Rose.” He’d been so complimentary all through Satellite Five, really, telling Cathica, “Rose asks the right sort of questions.”

When they had first left Adam at home, she’d been excited and bouncy, eager to spend some time with the Doctor, to revel in that spark of excitement she’d felt when they were together on the station. Something seemed to be opening up between them; there was still the sense of fun that had been there from the beginning, but it now had a depth that had come from not just enjoying each other’s company but from three close brushes with death in succession. The connection seemed to strengthen most particularly from the encounter with the Dalek. Afterward, Adam had been underfoot, in the way, and she felt a little guilty that she was so glad to be rid of him. But the Doctor’s subdued, slightly withdrawn reaction to her on their return to the TARDIS had surprised her, hurt a little.

She had sought refuge here, in the wardrobe room, in part because her own room seemed peculiarly empty. And as she had played with the all the extraordinary things she found here, her mind had been doing some reflecting despite her best efforts at distraction. With a bit of embarrassment, she realized that, to a great extent, the Doctor’s praise had not been for her, but for the benefit of those like Adam and Cathica who didn’t open their eyes and hearts to what was around them. That, at least, she could do.

She picked up a red scarf edged with a fringe of small bronze coins. It was vivid, surprisingly light and silky, and she folded it over, draping it over her hair.

“Rose?”

“Back here!” she called, tying the scarf in a knot on the side of her head.

She could hear his boots on the spiral staircase, and she met his eyes in the mirror as he came onto the balcony.

“Well?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips and posing with a grin.

His expression was pricelessly transparent, and he opened his mouth to make a comment, then shut it again.

“It’s okay,” she laughed, hitching up the skirt and pushing the full sleeves back up from her wrists. “I feel like I’m in fancy dress as my mother. She used to wear stuff like this when I was a kid.”

The Doctor gave a dramatic shudder, and she laughed, coming to him and taking the hand he held out. “Hungry?” he asked, long, freshly washed fingers closing around hers.

She nodded, realizing it had been quite a few hours since her beef slush puppy, and her stomach growled in response. “Doctor?”

“Yeah?” His eyes caught hers with that unnerving intensity that he sometimes — often — conveyed.

“Look, you can say no, but…” She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, and her eyes took a quick tour of the immediate area before returning to his. “Would it be okay if we visit Mum? It’s just — we were just in 2012, we must be so close.”

The silence stretched out for eons — well, seconds, anyway — and she noted that the pressure of his lips thinned their fullness slightly but didn’t disguise the delicate arabesques of their shape. Distracted for a moment, she then took a deep breath and rushed forward, “You wouldn’t have to come to dinner if you didn’t want to, though I’m sure Mum would be really happy if you did — but we could get fish and chips and have a picnic in the park, maybe?”

He could be so unnervingly still, she felt as if she were being pulled into the well of his gravity, waiting for his response. When it came it was sudden. “One condition.”

“Okay,” she agreed cautiously. “What?”

He reached out and plucked the red scarf from her head. “Just not a fan of that look,” he teased.

Her relieved laughter came quickly, and she caught the scarf with her free hand as he tossed it up, pulling her down the stairs with him.

***

“So much for the picnic.” Rose shivered as they stepped out into a dark, misty alleyway, lit by an insufficient lamp a few metres down. The TARDIS was in a cramped corner by some overfilled skips. Rose had to sidle sideways to get through, as they had landed with the door close to the nearest skip, and the hobo bag, with her wallet, make-up bag, and cellphone, that she had snagged on the way out the door banged against the metal resoundingly. “Are you sure this is the Powell Estates?”

He was locking the door and moved sideways toward her with an odd, easy grace before turning and pointing up to their left. “Yep.”

The familiar blocks of cement and light stretched up into the heavy night, and she wrinkled her nose, tying the scarf around her waist in part because she didn’t want to carry it and in part because the oversized blouse was letting in tendrils of the cool night air. Something didn’t seem quite right.

He took her hand, and they headed toward the towers but, rounding the corner, they were confronted by a large, unfamiliar building in the courtyard. A number of colourfully dressed people streamed in through the open orange fire doors, a banner stretched over them proclaiming,

“Winter Blast 1984!”

They both stopped and stared up at it.

Rose looked up at him curiously.

He looked worried, and a wee bit embarrassed. As the sounds of “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” blasted out of the doors, Rose grinned impishly, squeezed his hand, and dragged him in.

***

Sheena Easton was belting out “Strut”, and Rose moved unconsciously to the insistent beat, looking around in amazement and amusement. A DJ was set up on the far end of the community hall, a VariLite in each corner aimed at a mirrorball hanging from the ceiling by a fairly precarious-looking cable. Most of those crowded onto the gymnasium floor were in their teens and twenties, wearing big shoulders and big hair (boys as well as girls), with bold, artificial colours that practically glowed in the dark. The look was exaggerated and extravagant, but it had energy and a kind of retro futurism that struck Rose as almost quaint, and maybe even a bit glamorous. Her gypsy get-up didn’t exactly fit in, but she grinned to herself as she realized her hair – still in a high ponytail but suffering greatly from the humidity and a close encounter with the scarf earlier — was almost in style.

The music changed, and Tina Turner warned “Better Be Good to Me.” Rose felt a strong sense of déjà vu, as if she were listening to one of her mother’s old mixtapes, the ones Jackie used to sing aloud to, teaching her little girl the songs and the dance moves. A twinge of nostalgia pricked the back of her nose.

“Dance with me?” She turned and took both of the Doctor’s hands in hers, pulling him with her as she backed toward the dance floor. He hesitated, suddenly tensing, and Rose turned to see a group of young men congregating a few feet away, watching them warily. One of them made a gesture toward his hair, and the others nodded in agreement, something about the exchange making Rose’s stomach churn even before she fully understood, looking up at the Doctor with his close-cropped hair, Doc Martens, and leather gear.

Deciding instantly, she let go of one hand to pull him through the crowd toward the bathrooms at the end opposite the DJ. As usual, there was a line of girls snaking out the door of the women’s rooms, and Rose took a deep breath, pushing into the men’s room.

Other than a boy passed out in one corner, the place was blessedly empty and not even terribly smelly, and Rose ducked into the first stall, pulling him with her.

“Jacket, off,” she commanded, her voice soft but intense, just beneath the dull thud of the music through the walls, and he just looked at her in amazement as she propped her hobo bag on the cistern, tugging at the knot she had made in the scarf.

“Off!” she demanded more emphatically, crossing her arms over herself to pull off the peasant blouse, and he was still removing his jacket as her hands skimmed up beneath his dark blue jumper, pushing it up.

Only as hands trembling with adrenaline slid over soft hair and taut nipples did she realize what she was doing. She hesitated, looking up into his eyes, almost colourless in the fluorescent overhead lighting, but blazing with intensity nonetheless.

Her mouth was dry, and she had to swallow before she half-whispered urgently, “I don’t suppose you can grow your hair out suddenly?”

“Not without taking some pretty drastic measures,” he admitted wryly, raising his arms for her to rid him of the jumper.

Standing there, a breath apart in the stall, Rose felt a blush creep over her cheeks, down her throat to spread over her breasts. She was aware of the black lace of her bra against her skin as she realized he was exposed to her view for the first time. He was surprisingly narrow, lean and wiry, his collarbone and ribs almost too delineated against his pale skin. Traces of old bruises shadowed the area around his ribs and diaphragm, yellowish with only a trace of violet in their centres, and she fought a wave of nausea as she realized where those had come from. Silky hair, almost the same colour as his skin, softened his breastbone, extending like a cross on his torso, darkening as it stretched downward into the waistband of his jeans.

Not thinking about that, not thinking about that, she told herself firmly, and thrust the peasant blouse at him, taking the jumper for herself and pulling it over her head. With a little tug, it slid off one shoulder, and her fingers were at the buckle of his belt before she allowed herself to think about it.

“Rose!” he protested, but she just looked up at him as she whipped the belt out of his beltloops with a bit more force than necessary.

“Look,” she whispered urgently, belting the jumper loosely around her waist, arranging the buckle against her hip for an asymmetrical effect. “Those guys out there — they’re of one tribe, and they think you’re of another, and I know enough to know that they might be wearing eyeliner and hair mousse, and they might be harmless, but they might also just try to kill you. Put it on.”

He hesitated for a moment, looking stubborn, then, remarkably, tugged the blouse over his head.

Thank goodness he was as narrow as he was. The peasant blouse actually fit him pretty well, just about meeting the top of his jeans. Large ruffles framed the front placket, and she tugged at the shoestring laces, loosening them as much as she could, then put her hands on his shoulders, turned him around and pushed him down on the seat. Sliding astride him, she reached up for the hobo bag, her breath catching as his big hand in the small of her back steadied her. She looked down, realizing a fair expanse of soft flesh bared by his jumper and her bra was practically brushing his cheek.

She wondered if he could hear and feel her racing heart. She wondered if he knew how much of it was fear for him, and how much his nearness.

She wasn’t sure she knew herself. Swallowing against her dry mouth, she settled astride his long thighs, a subtle shiver passing over her skin as his big hands came to rest on her hips. “Tilt your head back,” she whispered as she pulled her make-up bag from the larger one. Resting it in the space between her belly and his ribs — convenient, protective — she pulled out her tools. “Trust me?”

He nodded, slightly, and she went to work, swiftly and efficiently. Lip-liner to accentuate the surprisingly pretty curves of his mouth — a bit too pink, not enough peach for his skin tone, no one was going to notice in the dim light; blush to follow the sharp line of his cheekbones, and a little stab of jealousy as she lamented her chipmunk cheeks. And the eyes…

“Close your eyes,” she whispered, gazing down into eyes that looked glacial ice in the light, but for the heat they generated. He obeyed, his head tilted back, throat exposed, lips parted, and she had to stop for a moment to keep her hand from shaking as she lined his eyelids, leaving a sharp angle at the outer corners of his eyes. A touch of mascara, and she realized his sandy eyelashes were longer than she’d ever noticed.

The bang of the men’s room door startled her, her hand slipping, and her elbow hit the partition with a thud that may or may not have folded into the reverberations from the initial incidence. Even as she saw stars from the strike to her funnybone, instinct slapped her hand firmly over his mouth, and he snatched his knees up to hide his feet, the shift of balance trapping her between the hardness of his belly and thighs.

The voices outside were loud, adolescent, and brash, friendly insults melting into a single texture as he held her fast, his strength and balance astonishing in their precarious position. His hand had slipped up beneath the jumper and belt as they shifted, his long thumb pressing into the soft flesh of her belly, just above the loose waistband of the skirt.

As he eased his instinctive grip, the soft caress of his thumb soothed the bruising pressure, sending shocks of electricity to the bundle of nerve endings presently situated right above his jeans button, and her eyes opened, focusing on his. His pupils had dilated, reflecting her flushed and breathless face, and somehow his irises had become the fierce blue of a gas flame.

Neither of them moved but for the slow, insistent movement of his thumb, their breath mingling as they fought for steadiness. Her hand slipped away from his mouth, fingertips lingering against his lips just a fraction too long as the herd of boys finished their business and left as loudly as they had arrived…

The Doctor eased his feet down to the floor, his hands on her hips holding her steady as the balance shifted again, and she had to close her eyes against the flush of pleasure that swept through her. “Rose,” he whispered, that long thumb, warm from her own belly, brushing against her cheek as he cupped her head.

She dragged her eyes open, an eerie shiver slipping down her spine at the first full view of him in the make-up. She wouldn’t have thought it would have suited him. He wasn’t a pretty boy.

Wrong on all counts.

Everything focused on the eyes.

“Gotta get out of here,” he reminded her in a whisper, and she nodded, forcing herself to slide back off his knees onto her own shaky feet, trying not to react as his hand slipped over her bum, smoothing down the skirt.

As she helped him back into the leather jacket, she turned him around so that she could tighten the buttoned belt on the back, giving the silhouette a bit of a waist. They had to press together to get the stall door open.

Two young men were entering the bathroom as they emerged, and Rose moved closer to the Doctor, sliding her arm around his waist under the jacket. He put a protective arm around her shoulders as the two young men leered knowingly at them. Rose met their eyes with a raised eyebrow, her hand ostentatiously sliding into the back pocket of the Doctor’s jeans as they left the bathroom, down the crowded hallway to the gym. Even more dancers were gyrating on the dance floor, and Rose looked up at him hopefully.

He looked down at her, then bent down to speak into her ear. “Do you really want to stay? We can be in 2006 in five minutes.”

“You won’t dance with me? Just once?” Her disappointment slipped out before she could stop it.

He looked at the dance floor, clearly hesitating, as the music changed to a light reggae beat with a thunderous backbeat and a rolling baseline, the gospel piano riff setting off a ripple of memories in her. “Oh, please!” She grabbed both of his hands, pulling him toward the dance floor. “I love this song! Mum used to play it all the time, it was her favourite. Please?”

He softened so obviously, she fought the impulse to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. Instead, she drew him out among the dancers, as her voice instinctively joined the recording. She closed her eyes, the sheer pleasure of singing rising up from her diaphragm, through her vocal cords and out her snapping fingertips, as her feet moved and hips swayed to the beat.

I hear a lot of stories, I suppose they could be true,
All about love and what it can do to you.

High is the risk of striking out, the risk of getting hurt,
And still I have so much to learn.

I know, ’cause I think about it all the time.
I know, that real love has quite a price.

The memories of singing into a hairbrush in her Mum’s bedroom, laughing, rolling on the bed and tickling washed over her as the release built to the chorus, and she was grinning broadly as she opened her eyes for the chorus. She remembered the choreography and repeated it playfully:

(Point) And a good heart, these days, is hard to find,
(Cross arms to clasp shoulders) True love, the lasting kind.
(Point) A good heart, these days, is hard to find,
(Clasp hands over her heart) So please be gentle with this heart of mine.

She faltered for a moment, realizing the resonance of the words with her own feelings, as she saw it in his face. A surge, almost of defiance swept away her incipient embarrassment, and she took a deep breath, singing along with less giddiness and more warmth.

My expectations may be high, I blame that on my youth,
Soon enough, I’ll learn the painful truth.

I'll face it like a fighter, then boast of how I've grown.
Anything is better than being alone.

I know, ’cause I learn a little every day.
I know, ’cause I listen when the experts say,

Instead of the choreography her mother had taught her, she reached out to take his hands, realizing that he had been dancing with her all along, not extravagantly, but his lean body clearly felt the beat.

That a good heart, these days, is hard to find,
True love, the lasting kind.
A good heart, these days, is hard to find,
So please be gentle with this heart of mine.

As I reflect on all my childhood dreams,
My ideas of love weren't as foolish as they seemed.

If I don’t start looking now, I'll be left behind.
And a good heart these days, it’s hard to find.

Rose felt a deep twinge of belated understanding as she remembered the many times her mother had told her — in whispers, in laughter, in tears, in wine — that this was the song that was playing when she met Rose’s father. And Rose suddenly realized that her mother had been even younger than she was now, just seventeen. By the time Jackie was Rose’s age, she was already a mother and just a few weeks from becoming a widow.

She blinked away tears, and looked up at the Doctor, taking a deep breath to sing almost with defiance.

I know, it’s a dream I'm willing to defend,
I know, it will all be worth it in the end.

And a good heart, these days, is hard to find,
True love, the lasting kind.
A good heart, these days, is hard to find,
So please be gentle with this heart of mine.

As the song glided to the end on the gospel-flavoured vocals, he reached out to take her hands, pulling her closer. Not quite an embrace, though her hands slid beneath his jacket to rest on his narrow waist as they moved to the beat.

The music changed to something with a quieter, slinkier beat, a saxophone skirling bluesily over a delicate synthesizer soundscape. Lifting his chin decisively, he took a step away, still holding her hand, and turned to bow to her slightly as a clear baritone sang seductively,

Passion take the wind
and break me from this tie

Without hesitation, she stepped into his arms, and he turned her deeper into the dance floor, bringing her lower body lightly against his.

I haven’t got a thing.
but what I give to you
is all that I could bring.
I'll give you all my time,
that's everything to me;
You know my only crime
is this flight of fantasy.

Rose found it impossible to take her eyes off his, his taut body relaxing more than she thought possible, moving with subtle rhythm against hers. Beneath the intensity of his gaze, she thought she saw something almost pleading there. She caught a breath, convinced that she must be imagining the longing, suggested by the song.

Because I've nothing else here for you,
and just because it's easier than the truth,
oh, if there's nothing else that I can do,
I'll fly for you

As the song swung into its middle eight, she caught her breath as he pushed her out into an easy spin, reeling her into his body with the melodramatic release. Her thigh slid between his as he held her closer than before, and his hand spread low in the small of her back as his eyes refused to let her go.

She felt the regret gathering as the song spun into its out chorus, knowing that the end was coming, and he seemed to feel the tension in her body, loosening his hold, which escalated her regret.

His eyebrow raised in a clear question, “Ready to go?”

She took a deep breath and nodded. A soft smile quirked his lips, reminding her with unexpected force of drawing the wand of the lip-liner against the elegant curves, and his hand tightened briefly on hers.

The beginning of Cyndi Lauper’s “She Bop” heralded a definite change of mood, and she couldn’t help the slightly naughty smirk creeping over her face as he turned to lead her through the crowd toward the door.

“Hey, Jacks, wait!”

The hand on her arm surprised her, but not as much as the face as she was spun around.

“Oh, sorry,” said the petite brunette with the short haircut and impossibly young face. “Thought you were someone else. Sorry.”

“’S okay.” Rose’s smile felt frozen on her face, her voice breathless as the girl rushed off. Her heart was pounding as the implications rushed in on her.

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his arm sliding around her waist as he spoke in her ear over the music. “Are you all right, Rose?”

“Yeah.” She turned to him, dazed. “I think my parents are here. They meet here. Tonight. Like, two songs ago.”

The Doctor’s jaw tightened, his fierce features overwhelming the softening effect of her make-up job, and he pulled her tighter against his side, striding toward the door.

“Can’t I just look?” she asked, struggling to keep up with his long legs, and he shook his head sharply, hustling her out of the building.

The cold, damp air hit her, and she shivered involuntarily as the moved against the tide of people heading into the dance. When they’d turned the corner, he stopped, and shucked off his jacket, holding it out for her.

“Why can’t I just look?” she asked, unlooping the hobo bag from her shoulder so that she could slip into the jacket.

“It’s too dangerous.” His statement brooked no argument, but she dug in her heels.

“Well, my mum’s friend Bev just saw me.”

“She’ll forget, it won’t be a big deal.” His voice gentled slightly, his hand on her shoulder as she pulled the jacket around her and turned back to look up at him.

“She’s younger than me,” she mused in wonder. “I’ve known her since I was a baby, and she’s younger than me.”

“That’s what time travel will do for you.” His voice was almost hollow, his hand curving tenderly to her cheek. The haunted look in his eyes seemed intensified by the eyeliner, and she put her hand over his, giving him a slightly shaky smile.

Her stomach rumbled at that moment, and his thumb lightly tapped her cheek as he grinned.

“Fish and chips?”

“This time o’night?” she asked in astonishment.

“I think the TARDIS can provide,” he said, taking her hand and leading her down the alleyway to the skips where they had left the big blue box.

Where there was now a series of empty skips, a blank brick wall, and no big blue box.

He stood so still that she thought for a moment that perhaps time had stopped. She looked up at him, registering the shock on his face, and worse, the hollowness in his eyes.

***

“It’s going to be all right.”

Rose repeats the mantra for what seems the thousandth time in the last hour, her fingers tightening around his. He stares ahead at the city street through the metronomic sweep of the bus’s windscreen wiper, ignoring the music blasting from the boombox in the back of the bus.

While he had cycled through shock, disbelief, giddy laughter, anger, bitter frustration, and an almost childlike sense of loss, she had held his hand, murmured words of sympathy and encouragement, and sat on the kerb watching with surreptitious amusement until the moment — about ten minutes into his performance — he remembered his sonic screwdriver and got a bead on the TARDIS’s homing signal.
When he had mentioned the river, Rose’s unexpected reunion with Auntie Bev jogged her memory and she remembered where they’d gone when Bev’s boyfriend had dumped her father’s favourite chair and Rose, Jackie, Rodrigo, and Bev had gone down to retrieve it.

He’d been ready to set off on the seven miles at a trot, but she had dragged him down to the bus stop, stopping to pick up the small card on the pavement. “Oh, brilliant, we just need one more.” Scrounging in the bin on the corner had turned up another unexpired travelcard, and she’d snatched the sonic screwdriver away from him, returning it to its pocket, as the bus had rounded the corner.

She studies his face in the harsh, uneven light of the bus. The cosmetics accentuating his cheekbones and eyes are very odd, but strangely beautiful, and she feels the mid-range riff of “When Doves Cry” coming from the back of the bus thump in her ribcage, shivering along her nerve endings. She closes her eyes as she remembers, like a series of flash photographs strobing in rhythm with the song…

Dig, if you will, the picture…

Eyes closed, lips parted, throat arched…

Thighs hard and tense beneath her bum…

The sweat of your body covers me…

Short hair still, somehow, ruffled by the quick passage of the jumper…

Soft, pale hair across flat, hard muscles, a darker trail leading downward…

Feel how it trembles inside…

The strip of pale skin stretched taut over his hipbone between jeans and blouse…

Cool breath caresses the curve of a breast heaving above black lace…

Their eyes lock.

They feel the heat, the heat between me and you…

His knee bounces impatiently, and she reaches out instinctively, even with her eyes closed, to still him. He turns to look at her with a look both sheepish and hopeful. She’s almost embarrassed that she’s been so aroused by the memories, and she squeezes his knee comfortingly.

“It’s going to be all right.”

***

She pulls the jacket closer around her, slinging the hobo bag over her shoulder as they get off the bus down near the river. He alights beside her, looking around as the bus pulls away, leaving them in a quiet neighbourhood, sparsely lit. He turns her, pulling her toward him by the lapels of his jacket, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to kiss her.

She’s embarrassed and a little giggle escapes her as he reaches into the breast pocket to retrieve his sonic screwdriver. The back of his hand brushes her breast, through her bra, through his jumper. It’s just an accident, she insists to herself.

But he is already checking the screwdriver’s signal and does not even look at her, just reaches instinctively for her hand as he heads down the pavement. She trots a couple of steps to catch up, grateful for the exertion in the increasingly cold, clammy night.

They stop at the next corner, and he turns, checking the street signs.

“Down this way.” He indicates the smallest of the three streets at this awkward intersection, and she’s crowds close to him as they follow a weathered board fence, then a chain-link fence, through which she can see towering mounds of rubbish.

“Is the TARDIS inside?” she asks, tightening her hand around his.

“Yeah. Come on.” He backtracks to the wooden section of the bench and pulls open a loose section of board, holding it up for her to duck inside the yard.

She wrinkles her nose at the smell, wrapping the long sleeve of his jacket around her hand and pressing it over her nose and mouth as he comes through the fence. He takes her other hand, and they follow a dirt path between piles of old appliances toward a section which seems to be the source of the pungent aroma. Turning around a large, fresh mound of rubbish, they find the TARDIS. Lying on one side, half-covered by boxes.

He releases Rose’s hand, squatting down beside the blue box, resting one hand on the side — now on top — and one on the front panel, his forehead resting against the wood. Rose chews her lower lip, resting her hand on his bowed head, his close-cropped hair soft and tickling against her palm.

“How are we going to get it right side up again?” she asks, not daring to ask the more crucial question — is the TARDIS injured?

But he just looks up at her with a bright smile in the dim light. “No need.” He takes the key from his hip pocket and unlocks the door, lifting it open.

Rose bends down to look inside, astonished to see the console room, same as always, but at a ninety-degree angle. The column of the rotor pulses up and down, slowly, and the mallet resting on the console where he’d left it, apparently defying gravity.

“Go on in,” he urges.

“H-how?” She feels a bit queasy at the prospect.

“You want me to go first?” he asks, his hand on her — his — sleeve in concern.

He reads the answer in her eyes and slides inside with an unexpectedly graceful move, leaning/lying against the inside of the other door, then reaching up for her. As she puts her hand in his, she gives her balance to him, trusting him and he draws her in, into his arms as her stomach whirls and her knees buckle.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs against her temple, holding her against him as she hears the door slam shut behind her.

His hand strokes her hair back as she clings to him, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Another deep breath.” She obeys, feeling her stomach settle. She can feel the coolness of his skin and soft hair between the laces of the peasant blouse against her cheek, and she brings one hand up to his chest as his hand cups her head.

“Open your eyes.”

She obeys, blinking as the world reorients around her. “Wow.” She’s stepped away from him almost before she realizes it, turning to take in the console room. It looks exactly the same as it always did, and her stomach is firmly back in its place.

“All right?” he asks, stepping toward her.

“Yeah.” She turns toward him with a smile. “Is the TARDIS still on its side?”

“’Course it is,” he says with a grin, tossing the key up before catching it and returning it to his jeans pocket. In the pale green light, he looks almost devilish with the eyeliner and the unusual attire. “What, you can accept bigger on the inside, but not at a ninety-degree angle?”

“I s’pose when you put it that way…” she laughs, and he slides both hands into the back pockets of his jeans as he stops, a breath away from her. Her smile fades a little as arousal, never far away on this night, flares again.

“How about a shower, and I’ll meet you back here for a midnight picnic in an hour.”

“But it’s already at least midnight,” she points out.

“I’m sure I can find somewhere where it’s midnight,” he retorts.

“I guess I’ll go get my sunglasses and tanning oil,” she teases, and he gives her an offended,

“Oi,” with a slap to her bum as he turns her and pushes her toward the interior of the ship.

She giggles and trots down the corridor, realizing that a shower sounds really appetizing after their long day.

***

She steps outside onto the softness of knee-high grass, covering a plateau that dropped away some twenty metres ahead to a calm sea. Her clean hair, loose around her shoulders, stirs in the soft breeze that ripples the grass in an echo of the ocean lapping at the shore. The air smells pleasantly of salt and something sweet, like a vanilla candle, and it’s warm against her bare arms and legs. She had put on a t-shirt and her denim mini-skirt, too tired to choose anything more complicated, and carried his jacket, belt, and jumper back to the Doctor in the console room. He was freshly showered himself, hair still a bit damp and face scrubbed clean, dressed in jeans and a v-necked navy t-shirt, looking more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.

“Little less Duran Duran, a little more Clash,” she had teased as he’d left his armour on the chair and pushed her out the door.

The sky above them is a deep blue, but in addition to the barrage of stars, three moons illuminate the night. One is the size of Earth’s moon, a little more cratered and a darker blue, over the mountains that stretch out in the distance behind them; the other two are much larger, crowding the sky over the sea, one as gold and full as a harvest moon, the other a dark red crescent with an edge of salmon as its curve echoes the harvest moon.

“This is beautiful.” She turns in a circle, wondering at the view, as he brings out a basket and a folded blanket.

“I thought you might like it,” he says gruffly, spreading the blanket on the soft cushion of grass.

She turns to look at him, kneeling on the blanket and opening the basket, and her tongue flirts with the inside of her cheek as she asks, “Is it really midnight?”

He looks at his watch, and she can see the little bit of embarrassment before he covers with a gruff, “’Course.”

The surge of affection makes her laugh, and she comes over to him, dropping to her knees in front of him. “Really?”

“Well.” He presses his lips together as he busies himself in the basket. “Maybe a little later. It’s hard to gauge these things relatively, when every celestial body has a different orbital and rotational cycle.”

“So what time is it?” She reaches out to catch his wrist. Not that she can really read his watch — it looks normal until she’s actually trying to read it, and then it seems to swirl and twist into impossible configurations.

“About two a.m., local time,” he admits, the tips of his ears visibly blushing, and she slides her hand down over his to link her fingers with his.

“It’s lovely,” she says softly, and he looks up at her with that open expression that sometimes seems to escape him. Normally, he tries to hide it quickly, but right now, it persists, and in the overlapping shadows and light of the three moons, she thinks he has never seemed so alien or so beautiful. In a way far more natural than the cosmetics, the odd illumination highlights the stark bone structure of his face, and his eyes seem to capture all the available light.

“It doesn’t matter to me, you know.” She’s rising to her knees before she realizes it, and with a few movements, she’s astride his thighs, echoing their position of earlier. “If we’d arrived at 6 am or 9 pm or 114 years from now, or a million years ago — you always make anywhere worth seeing.”

He swallows visibly as she settles against him, her fingertips lightly tracing the large curves of his ears. “Thank you.” She kisses his forehead, his hands coming hesitantly to her hips. “Thank you.” She kisses the tip of his nose and bows her head.

His hands tighten, and he starts to protest, but she breathes, “Please shut up and let me do this,” before she kisses his mouth.

His lips are full and soft, a little chapped, cooler than she’s used to but warmer than she’s imagined, and his big hands spread on her back, holding her closer as she brushes his lips apart, her tongue lightly caressing…

“Rose,” he breathes. “I’m trying to be careful here.”

“I know.” She lifts her head just enough to look into his eyes. “And it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” She caresses his freshly shaven cheek with the backs of her curled fingers, following the sharp line of his cheekbone.

“I know,” he murmurs. “And that’s why I’m being careful.”

“Don’t be so careful.” She feels strangely calm and dips her head, breathing a final plea before their lips meet.

“Fly for me.”

**********

Prompts: Prompt 1: 80s music/the 80s; Prompt 2: Dinner at 2 a.m; Prompt 3: Public transportation by necessity

Featured songs: "When Doves Cry" by Prince and the Revolution; "A Good Heart" by Maria McKee, as performed by Feargal Sharkey; and "I'll Fly for You" by Gary Kemp, performed by Spandau Ballet.

Relict, 7/12(?) (DW, 9/J/R, Teen for the moment)

Sat, 10 May 2008 01:57:23 GMT

Chapter One - Bazaar | Chapter Two - Maintenance | Chapter Three - Off-Balance | Chapter Four - Whirl | Chapter Five - Shadows | Chapter Six - Latency

Thanks as always to wendymr for the beta reading.

Chapter Seven – Ritual

The hot water hit the nape of her neck and seemed to spread throughout her body, down her spine, across her shoulders, up over her scalp. She wasn’t just sore from the headlong dash from the dragon’s nesting place — well, they weren’t really dragons, but flying reptilians that nested in the cliff of a thrust-fault in the depths of a just-above-freezing rain forest. Close enough.

She stretched her arms over her head and back, tilting her head under the water. She was still carrying tension from last night, and the niggling worry that persisted since yesterday morning. In the bigger scheme of things, last night hadn’t been the worst. It was almost…normal. It just hadn’t had the same triggers.

Rose planted her hands against the tiles, bowing her head and shoulders under the pounding power of the shower. That first time she had slept with him had been so serene, so hopeful. The second time…

The second time had shown her the dangers of getting what she hoped for.

She shuddered, gasping a little as the water ran down her face, around her cheeks and into her mouth.

…

There’s no one – I would know.

The empty look in his eyes haunted her, and after getting Adam settled with fresh clothes, fresh linens, tea with milk and two sugars, and a turkey sandwich with Swiss cheese, lettuce, brown mustard, no tomato — honestly, he was worse than Jamie Simmons down the end that she used to babysit, and Jamie was three — she went in search of the Doctor.

He was not in the console room, the galley, the observation room, the library, or the machinery shop, all the places she normally could find him. She found herself wandering down spiraling corridors with no doorways, and although she felt as though the TARDIS was guiding her, she also felt some resistance. As she was having to take the long way around.

She was beginning to be quite self-conscious of her own sweaty, disheveled state when she fetched up at a plain wooden door with iron hinges, the kind one found in listed buildings. It was even a little canted, as if the TARDIS were somehow suffering from subsidence. It was an ordinary enough looking door, but she couldn’t help feeling as if it had a big red “KEEP OUT” sign on it.

Twisting her fingers together as she chewed on her lower lip, she thought about knocking, but something stopped her. She turned away hesitantly, but before she had taken two steps, she heard the latch sigh open, and she turned back, watching the door swing open onto near darkness. A wedge of taupe linoleum was all she could see.

She approached cautiously, alert but concerned, and called out softly, “Doctor?”

“Rose! Don’t—” His hoarse response was too late. At her touch, the door swung open, allowing the weak light from the corridor to spill over the bare, simple room. The Doctor was lying on a narrow, plain bed with a dark spread, highlighting the paleness of his skin as he was bare from the waist up.

Her overwhelming first impression was human. Lean. Thin, really, except for the strength of the wiry muscles. Shoulders that seemed to be broad and narrow at once, collarbones sharp as razors beneath his skin. He had raised himself on one elbow, twisting toward her, but she could see the effort registering on his drawn features, and as she drew closer, her eyes adjusting to the murky light, she could see the pale shadows of bruises all over his torso, the deepest in the hollow of his far shoulder. Another settled in the arch of his ribs, and she could see the delineation of knuckles in the abraded skin. But that was not the worst. Patches of pink and white mottled the flesh, some peeling like sunburn, others appearing to be in the early stages of blistering.

She was speechless, horrified for a moment, then was at his side in an instant.

“Come with me to the medlab.” She tried to find places to put her hands, determined not to think about anything but treatment for the moment.

“I’ve been,” he said simply, lips a little pale from pressure as he eased himself back against the thin mattress with its shallow pillow. “It’s all right, Rose, I’m healing. It’ll all be okay in a few hours. Go back to bed.”

“I think I’ll stay right here,” she said firmly, pulling the bucket-shaped caster chair at the roll-top desk closer to the side of the bed. “He tortured you, didn’t he? Like he did the Dalek?”

The Doctor didn’t say anything, just moved carefully to settle into a flat position on the bed.

“What’s this?” she asked, picking up a silver implement from the corner of the desk. It looked like a fatter version of the sonic screwdriver; it even had a blue glowing light on one end and was humming so softly that she didn’t really hear it until she picked it up.

“Dermal regenerator.” He closed his eyes.

As if that was going to stop her.

“Can this fix the burns?” she asked, turning it over and examining the light more closely.

“Careful,” he warned, reaching out with breathtaking suddenness to deflect the light from her eyes. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

“Rose—” He looked at her with an expression that came as near to helplessness as she ever wanted to see from him, then he took the tool from her, adjusting the setting. “Look, this isn’t a magic wand. You have to focus it on the burn until the flesh underneath heals; then the blister will start to peel. It takes several minutes per square inch, even on burns this superficial — just the by-product of his imaging scan that’s more useful for metal than flesh. I’ve done the worst ones, and I heal pretty fast. The rest can wait until morning.”

“Don’t think so.” She reached over to turn on the desk lamp, providing enough light for both of them to blink uncomfortably for a moment. Then she was off the chair and onto the side of the bed. “Budge over a little.”

Just a flash of rebellion in his eyes, and she gave him a warning look.

“Look, if you can wait until morning, you can move over six inches.”

She almost regretted her insistence when he seemed to get suddenly…small with his tiredness and shifted over to give her a bit more room to sit beside him. “So the ones that are peeling are the ones you’ve already done?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’m going to start with this one,” she said, indicating a hand-sized blister on his left breast. “Teach me.”

He took a deep breath, settling his hips a little more toward the wall and said, “Focus the beam on the blister. Start from the edges and work towards the center.”

Rose held the beam steady on the edge of the blister, watching as, at first, it seemed to get worse, then the skin on top started to thin.

“You won’t be able to heal one spot at a time,” he explained, lifting his head to watch. “Let it get about like that, then move on and come back around. It helps if you can massage a little as you move, behind the beam. Gets the blood flowing. My circulation isn’t as fast as yours.”

Rose used the pads of her fingers to massage the healing flesh, backing off toward the edges a bit more when he hissed through his teeth, and she fell into a rhythm as she worked inward towards the center as the old, dead skin started to peel away, leaving new flesh underneath.

She was pleased with her quarter-hour’s work. “Better?”

She was pleased even more by his soft, “Well done. Thank you.”

Trying to avoid the bruises, Rose fell into a rhythm of healing the blisters, the bigger ones first, then the smaller ones. As she checked his expression periodically, she was relieved to see his face relaxing, his eyes growing softer, more dilated, a darker blue that generally seemed to indicate happiness in him.

She rested for a moment, brushing the small flakes of dead skin away, out of the surprisingly abundant, but almost invisible fine blonde hair on his chest. Feeling an odd flutter, she pressed her palm lightly against his chest. “What’s that?”

“My heart,” he said, as if she were particularly thick.

“What, it’s on the other side?” She grinned, feeling a little thrill at this proof of alienness.

“There’s one on either side.” His tone practically added, “Everybody knows that.” But then his face and tone softened as her mouth fell open in amazement. “I’ve got two.”

“Really?” Without even thinking about it, she bent her head to press her ear over first one side, then the other. “Wicked!” As he sucked in his breath, she realized her hair was spilling across blisters and brand-new skin which must be especially sensitive, and she swept it back from her face as she sat up. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“’S okay.” His voice was soft as his eyes traced her face. “Thank you.”

Smiling gently, she started to work on some of the smaller blisters. His breathing, always slower than seemed normal to her, settled into a relaxed tempo, and she was relieved that he was falling asleep. He had not slept, as far as she knew, since she had known him, which was some vague time in the TARDIS, but surely more than a few weeks now.

She had done all the blisters and even worked a bit on some of the areas that were half-peeling, until she was sure he was asleep. The exhaustion of the day started to hit her, and she found a light woven blanket at the foot of the bed, which she wasn’t sure had been there all along. She spread it gently over him, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she lay down on top of the blanket beside him, pulling the edge over her bare shoulders.

She was never sure exactly what awakened her, the flash behind her eyelids as she remembered the Dalek exploding, the strangled scream of anguish, or the shock of hitting the floor, elbow first. She didn’t have time to think of the pain sparking almost cartoonishly from her affronted funny bone before another hoarse, shrieking cry — inhuman, but unmistakably full of pain — assaulted her ears.

She scrambled up to her knees beside the bed, seeing his body stretched rigid on the small surface, tendons and muscles stressed, eyes open and staring. “Doctor?” She reached out tentatively to touch his arm, and he jerked, shoving back against the wall, his hand stretched defensively toward her. She pressed her palm against his, lacing her fingers through his, repeating his name. It took a moment before he seemed to focus, and then the horrible emptiness filled his eyes once more.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” he said, his soft voice raw.

“It’s all right.” She eased closer.

He blinked, and his eyelashes suddenly spiked wetly. “Oh, Rose, they’re all gone.”

“I know.” She squeezed his hand, her heart tightening at the violent shudder that went through him. “I know.”

She found a clean jumper on the desktop and he pulled it over his head hungrily. Almost in the same motion as he thrust his arms into the sleeves, he gathered her into his arms, and she went eagerly, holding him tightly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly, and she could feel him shake his head vigorously. He can be just like Jamie Simmons, too, she thought with a bittersweet smile, her hand smoothing over his close-cropped hair. It was the first time she had touched it, and the softness amazed her. “That’s okay, you don’t have to.”

He had tried to get her to leave, but his eyes pleaded for her to stay. And she did. She held him through the violent shudders, the screaming in languages that the TARDIS did not translate, and the particularly the stretches when exhaustion left him limp and hardly breathing, asleep or unconscious, she was unsure. She could only imagine what was going on in his head; she didn’t really want to know. If he could not bear it, she was not sure she could either, and it didn’t alter in the least her desire to be there for him.

She awoke curled up in the middle of the small bed, covered by the blanket, to find him leaning back in the desk chair, long legs crossed, leather jacket sitting firmly on strong-narrow shoulders as he gazed at her over the rim of his black glazed tea mug, the one with the gold inscription in the circular script that he scribbled on the Post-Its scattered over the console. He was a bit paler than usual, the taut skin around his eyes and mouth a little more lined, but his eyes seemed soft, and he reached out to hand her the tea mug that had been sitting on the corner of the desk.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, her own throat a little raw as she downed a warm, milky mouthful of honeyed tea.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She took another sip of tea. She found it somehow difficult to ask the reciprocal question, feeling his defenses rebuilding.

“Ready to show your new boyfriend a little taste of time travel?”

The twinkle in his eyes caused her to grin in relief, even as she retorted, “He is not my boyfriend.”

“Ah, well, the lady doth protest…” he teased, and she made a face at him, relieved to fall into the familiar banter.

He chuckled, taking another sip of tea.

It was then that they heard Adam’s querulous voice drifting in from the corridor.

“Your boyfriend’s calling you.”

“Oh, hush, you.” Rose couldn’t stop grinning as she untangled herself from the blanket and climbed out of the small bed, miraculously without spilling her tea. “I’m coming!” she called, as she slipped her feet into the trainers that she had kicked off sometime in the night.

“Rose.”

The Doctor’s voice was so deep, so rich, despite the edge of roughness, and she looked at him with a subtle shiver of unexpected pleasure. He leaned forward and reached out with his left hand to squeeze hers.

“Thank you.”

She moved towards him, her arms opening for a hug.

“Rose?”

Adam’s voice sounded like it was right outside the door, but the Doctor stood up quickly, giving her a quick, fierce hug. “Go get ’im, Tiger.”

…

She made herself remember all of it, including the gentle playfulness of the next morning. It didn’t matter to her so much that they never talked about it. She felt guilty that she treasured those moments as much as she did, when they cost him so much.

Rose turned off the tap and reached for a towel, rubbing her steamy pink skin quickly so that she could meet the Doctor in the medlab before he came looking for her.

***

Showered, shaved, and dressed in loose navy cotton trousers and a white t-shirt, Jack made his way to the medlab in soft glove-leather slippers that had appeared beside his bed while he was in the shower. They almost felt like they were massaging his feet, and he patted the corridor wall gratefully —and only a little lasciviously — as he rounded the corner.

He was surprised to find the Doctor alone in the medlab, checking a huge, old-fashioned leather-bound book on a stand that looked out of place in the gleaming, utilitarian room. The décor was reminiscent of Earth’s high modernist period in Europe, mostly white and straight lines, though the visible metal had a softer sheen than chrome, closer to white gold.

“Ah, there you are.” The Doctor looked up from the book and patted the padded table as he passed by on the way to a glass-fronted cabinet.

Jack hopped up on the table as the Doctor took out a vial of pale pink liquid, a small pot made of dark amber glass, and a short, slender tool.

“Foot up.” The Doctor dipped the tool in the pink vial as Jack obeyed, pulling the wide leg of the trousers up to his knee. The smooth tip of the tool was set against the muscle of his calf, a few inches from the slightly inflamed scratch, and Jack felt a slight, brief puff as the medication was injected by some sort of air-pressure mechanism. The pinkness was already starting to fade as an opalescent ointment from the little pot applied directly took away the swelling and itch.

“Fantastic!” declared Jack as the Doctor placed the lid back on the pot and raised an eyebrow. Jack grinned, unrepentantly cheeky, and the Doctor shook his head slightly, turning away to wash his hands in the basin behind him.

Rose shuffled into the medlab in her ridiculous bunny slippers and oversized pink flannel pajamas, also decorated with bunnies. Her clean hair was loose around her shoulders, and tiredness was evident in her face.

Jack watched as the Doctor’s quiet concern drew the sharp features taut. Rose’s hand looked tiny in his as he lifted it up for examination. A quick injection of the pink liquid, and the Doctor brushed his thumb over the puncture mark, which was almost healed over already.

He reached up to brush her fringe tenderly out of her eyes with a forefinger, his palm cupping her cheek as his other hand continued to hold the injured one at their sides. “Feeling anything out of the ordinary?” he asked, blue eyes intent into brown.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him with a smile. “Just tired.”

The Doctor swallowed visibly, his thumb gently stroking the apple of her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he murmured finally.

Her smile was so warm, Jack could feel it even when it wasn’t directed at him. “’S not your fault,” she reassured him. “Well, not much. Startling the dragon-things, that kind of was. And landing us in a briar patch, that kind of was, too. And I suppose—”

“Yeah, all right,” he interrupted her, eyes twinkling even as he pretended to huff, his arm dropping around her shoulders as he turned to Jack. She practically melted into his side, grinning broadly as he asked, “Jack. Care for a dance?”

***

Rose curled into the corner of the leather couch in the library, her feet tucked beneath a soft afghan as she cradled the cocoa mug in her hands, blowing across the hot, sweet liquid. Although Jack had offered her the first dance, she had been happy to take up the sidelines, out of fairness and curiosity as well as tiredness.

The huge four-storey room was dim except for the fire roaring in the huge fireplace opposite her. Jack and the Doctor had rolled up the big, ornate rug to bare the wooden floor, once highly polished but now mellowed to a dark, buttery brown.

“It’s not a ballroom, but it’ll do,” declared the Doctor, dusting off his hands as he went to the old Victrola sitting on a table near the piano, over in the corner. “What’ll it be? Minuet? Twist? Foxtrot? Afoxé?”

Jack was standing in the middle of the impromptu dance floor, hands on hips as he watched the Doctor flipping through records. “I’d like a waltz, please.”

The soft, rich tone of his voice stirred something almost uncomfortably pleasant in Rose’s belly, and the Doctor turned to look at him. For a moment, she thought he might be angry, but the taut look in his face seemed to be something else, something she couldn’t quite read. It caused Jack to lower his arms and relax his body. A smile eased slowly over the Doctor’s face, and he took a large disk from the stack in his hands.

“A waltz it is,” he declared, turning to put the disk on the turntable and wind up the mechanism. He adjusted the horn and set the needle on the disk, then stepped towards Jack as the scratchy sounds gave way to a tinny orchestral introduction.

Jack lifted his arms, and with no trace of awkwardness, the Doctor swept him into the gentle curves and lobes of the dance as the lilting first strain began. As if it was a movie, the small sounds of the acetate record were subsumed into a full-bodied, live sound that seemed to come from all around them in the room, and the dancers orbited each other smoothly as they traced an ellipse around the floor.

Jack’s grace wasn’t a surprise to Rose, and the Doctor’s shouldn’t have been, as she had experienced it first hand; but it astonished her how easily they moved together. Their heights were so evenly matched (Jack made up for a slight deficit with the extra elevation in his hair), but their bodies — though both so masculine — were utterly different. Jack was classic, solid, muscular, and yet he looked smaller against the Doctor’s lean length.

As the waltz descended into the whirl of its coda, Rose realized that, although they had started a relaxed arm’s length apart, their bodies were now almost touching, their eyes locked. For a brief moment, as the music ended, all of them seemed to hold their breaths.

Then the opening strains of “In the Mood” riffed from the walls, and the grin that split the Doctor’s face was equal parts challenge and glee as he pushed Jack away and caught him by both hands. Jack laughed, willingly spinning under the Doctor’s arm as they bounced into an easy swing jive.

…

The yawn ripped through her grin as she watched Jack and the Doctor bobbing up and down in some bizarre puppet-like manner, which — she was informed by Jack — was a Xaxaha’an hunting dance. They had been going for hours now, through the galliard, the Watusi, the schottische, Zulu war dances, and Indonesian wayang tupang before an argument over whether a highly stylized series of posturing was medieval Japanese or from the planet Messurawa sent them spiraling off into dances from other places, other races, some of which weren’t even bipedal. Watching Jack writhing on the floor as if he were some intelligent caterpillar had them all in gales of laughter.

Jack’s hair was frizzing a bit with the perspiration that slicked his t-shirt to his body. The Doctor had even shrugged off his leather jacket sometime back, the sleeves of his cobalt-blue jumper shoved up his heavily veined forearms. They were both a little out of breath and laughing as the skirling music shrieked to a stop.

The music began again, something that sounded vaguely Middle Eastern to Rose’s unsophisticated ear. It had a steady but asymmetrical rhythm on various percussion instruments, and a weird, wailing stringed instrument – almost like a violin playing a blues guitar riff – sailed over the top. Blue eyes met blue, in something like a challenge, a dangerous smile curving the Doctor’s mouth as he dropped into a half-crouch. His shoulders moved in a graceful shrug beneath the blue jumper as he shook his head like a lion shaking his mane. Jack grinned and matched his urgent stance, their feet moving slightly in a near-shuffle to the steady rhythm, stamping hard to accentuate heavy, syncopated beat that Rose could not quite wrap her head around.

The voice surprised her, a deep, haunting male sound that started in a low, growling register. Jack performed a version of the shrug-headshake gesture, stepping close enough on one of the hard beats to butt his head against the Doctor’s shoulder. Both of them laughed, but stopped long enough to throw up a hand with a hoarse shout to punctuate a line of singing. More instruments, mostly percussion, layered in, creating a more complex texture and steadier, still-syncopated rhythm. Jack was more controlled, his movements obviously that of a dancer, but there was something so primal, so animalistic about the way the Doctor moved, and as he shrugged and lunged, his head aimed for Jack’s shoulder.

Rose caught her breath, and then suddenly, his long throat was arching, his sharp cheekbone rubbing against the side of Jack’s head, pushing it against his own shoulder. She was reminded again of a lion, cuffing a cub with a massive paw, affectionate… for now. So much potential danger.

As both men flung their arms up in another shout, she could see the astonishment on Jack’s face, the aroused dilation of his eyes meeting the predatory glint in the Doctor’s, gone almost black but for a ring of silver. They dropped back down into the half-crouch, another level of rhythm layered on the music, and the voice moved into a higher, more strained register. The dancers’ torsos began to arch and stretch obliquely to the beat, a sway introduced to the low stance as they started to circle each other like wrestlers, their slow shuffle accented by stamps.

After another punctuating shout, Jack moved in for another head butt, even before their arms had fallen back to their sides, but the Doctor slid his shoulder down, pressing against Jack’s collarbone, holding him as he rolled his head against Jack’s, turning his body entirely around the pivot. Straightening, he shoved in, bumping his chest hard against Jack, who grabbed his bare forearms, holding their bodies against each other.

Rose was unaware that her mouth was hanging open, but her body was responding strongly to this display. That Jack’s was, too, was plainly evident, and it seemed unlikely that the Doctor was unaware of it as he bowed his head, resting his forehead against Jack’s shoulder for a moment. Then he curved his long neck, rubbing his cheekbone hard against Jack’s head.

A shudder passed over Jack’s tense body, but the Doctor kept the pressure up. They both shot their hands up in the air again, chests remaining pressed together as Jack pushed back with his head, bringing his hips in contact with the Doctor’s. The music crested and reached a plateau, the rhythm grinding intensely as the two bodies strained against each other.

As the music released, they stood, pressed close for an intense moment, then the Doctor brought a hand up to clasp the back of Jack’s head, resting against his shoulder. He patted firmly, squeezing Jack’s nape before he eased back. He barely moved, but the firelight flickered between them, and Rose released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Jack raised his head, invitation unmistakable in his eyes, with just a hint of pleading on his parted lips.

The Doctor smiled softly, his voice low and warm and clearly drawing a line under the moment. “Thanks for the dance, Jack.”

Rose felt her stomach clench with a disappointment she could not quite fathom, and Jack brought his hand up to mirror the Doctor’s, cupping the fierce skull. His lips softly caught the Time Lord’s in a kiss that managed to be both chaste and sensuous. “Thank you.”

They stepped back from each other as if breaking a magnetic seal, hesitantly at first, then relaxing as the space between them snapped the connection. Their hands slid down shoulders and arms to clasp together in a friendly squeeze, as the Doctor turned to Rose, cold mug clutched in her hands.

“Still awake?” A smile curved his lips as his fingers slipped away from Jack’s.

“A bit hard to sleep through that performance,” she stated, setting the mug on the end table as she kicked off the afghan and swung her bunny slippers to the floor. “That was amazing.” Her eyes went to Jack, who was grinning a bit wistfully, his arms crossed on his chest as his weight rested on one foot, and her last words were spoken to him. “Really amazing.”

“Looks like it’s time you were in bed,” said the Doctor, going to take his jacket off the piano and slide it back on. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“Do we?” Even Jack was curious.

“I thought we’d go see the Harvest Festival on Mirwadi Prime. What do you think?”

“Archaic, classic, modern, post-modern, or neo-post-modern era?” asked Jack, running his fingers through his hair.

“Archaic, ’course,” retorted the Doctor. “That’s when it’s all fresh and exciting and unpredictable, right?”

Jack just grinned, shaking his head as the Doctor came to take Rose’s hand.

“Unpredictable,” he echoed. “Right.”

Fic announcement

Mon, 05 May 2008 00:04:47 GMT

My contribution to the Nine/Rose "Run!" ficathon is up here.

Relict, 6/12(?) (DW, 9/J/R, Teen - but rising in intensity)

Fri, 18 Apr 2008 19:49:18 GMT

Thanks again, very much, to wendymr for beta services, particularly as this chapter and the next one have gotten a little tangled up together and we've been hacking through the undergrowth, trying to find a path!

Chapter 1 - Bazaar | Chapter 2 - Maintenance | Chapter 3 - Off-Balance | Chapter Four - Whirl | Chapter Five - Shadows

Chapter Six – Latency

“Good morning!”

Jack breezed into the console room with a bright smile and an eager “let’s get started” clap of the hands, then stopped and circled the central pillar curiously. All the gratings and panels were still in place, no mallets or odd bits of machinery were lying around, but most importantly, there were no long legs sticking out from underneath.

This was a rare occurrence. Remembering the Doctor’s tiredness the night before — not to mention the brief but disturbing drama of his seizure earlier in the day — Jack was a bit concerned. He decided to make his way to the galley, where they all tended to congregate when Rose crawled out of bed, usually several hours after he was up and about.

It had been those morning hours spent together when he had built his rapport with the Doctor. Jack knew from the beginning that the Doctor had been warning him off Rose, even though he never came out and said it — that challenging gaze over her shoulder as he brought her back up from the dip in that first, exhilarating dance said it clearly enough. At the same time, it had also said, “You next?” The signals weren’t so much mixed as complicated. But Jack enjoyed untangling wires, even when they sometimes sparked at him.

Almost as much as he enjoyed flirting with the Doctor, and his TARDIS, which to some extent was the same thing. Praise for the magnificent timeship caused the TARDIS to purr and the Doctor to glow and bluster in equal measure.

The corridor to the galley seemed unusually long, and he was surprised when an unfamiliar door opened to reveal a sleep-disheveled Rose. Her hair was a ratty mess on one side, her feet were bare, and her pink t-shirt was wrinkled, gapping from the red yoga pants riding low on her hips. She looked almost fragile without the mascara and eyeliner she normally overused.

She was closing the door so carefully, as if not to be heard, and when he said her name, even in a stage whisper, she jumped and turned immediately to block the door. When she saw it was him, she relaxed in relief, but crossed her arms protectively across her chest as she leaned against the doorframe with studied casualness.

Jack’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “So, that’s his room, is it?” he asked softly, eyes noting the door carefully. The TARDIS liked to shuffle rooms, and this one with the plain wooden door wasn’t one he’d seen before. Then he looked at her, noting the pinkening of her cheeks. “So he used his energy to dance with you. Good for you!” He was sincere as he reached out to pinch her cheek playfully, and it was true — almost from the first moment he’d met them, although he’d been interested in both individually, there was something so immensely appealing about the two of them together that even the Doctor had realized that Jack had no intention of disrupting that.

But he noticed that her cheeks bore the traces of tears, and the teasing melted away quickly. “Rose? Are you all right? Is he?”

“Fine, fine,” she said softly, her hands on his arms and chest shushing him with soft little pats as she pushed him away from the door. “Just—shh.”

He let her hustle him down the corridor to the suddenly nearby galley, where she shoved him toward the kettle and got two mugs out of the cupboard. He filled the kettle from the tap, watching her root through the transdimensional tea chest before coming up with a couple of rosehip and bramble tea bags. Her movements were tired, and he noticed a new bruise on one bare arm, just beneath the edge of the t-shirt.

“Do you want to go wash your face and brush your hair while this is steeping?” he asked, and instead of the expected saucy reply (“What? This hairstyle is the latest fashion!”), she just looked at him gratefully and handed him the tea as she left the room.

Jack opened the packets and placed each bag in a mug thoughtfully. His curiosity was about to eat him alive, but his concern was greater.

***

The cold water splashing on her face was bracing and, after the first shock, felt remarkably good. Rose picked up a fluffy handtowel and patted the water away, leaning forward to examine her face carefully in the mirror. The cold water reduced the puffiness and unglued her eyelashes; faint circles remained beneath her eyes, but all in all, not too bad, considering that she had only had four or five uninterrupted hours of sleep, followed by several more fitful hours during which tears had slipped intermittently through gritty eyelids.

She had fallen asleep almost immediately upon crawling into bed with the Doctor, but she had been jolted awake too few hours later by his screams. Hoarse, high… She was never more aware that he was alien than when she heard those cries.

She had nudged him gently, easing him into another level of sleep, curling around him while he gathered a few more precious moments of respite.

Until the dreams seized him again, and the routine repeated…

She sighed and reached for her hairbrush. It was truly amazing how much better little things like washing her face and brushing her hair made her feel, and she sent Jack a little warm burst of gratitude.

“Ow!” The protest was instinctive as the brush caught in the snarl on the side of her head, and she reached up to grasp her hair close to the scalp so she could work out the knots without tearing her hair out. As she did, she noticed a shadow under her right arm and lifted her elbow, using her left forefinger to pull back the sleeve of her t-shirt. Three small, blurry bruises were developing, and she had a sudden, sharp memory of his hand gripping her upper arm as a shriek awakened her. At the time, she hadn’t noticed, her hand moving soothingly over his short-cropped hair in a motion that seemed to calm him. It calmed her, at least, and he had eventually settled against her into stillness once more. Nothing unusual. Not anymore. And that bothered her most of all.

The first time she had slept with him was the night they had left the Powell Estate after 10 Downing Street had been blown up. He had been so skittish about staying for dinner, and she should have been furious about him seducing her away with promises of pretty bright lights, but she had also come to understand, some indefinite time later, that he was afraid of staying, afraid of her staying. Afraid she wouldn’t want to leave her mother again, afraid perhaps that he would enjoy that touch of domesticity.

And he hadn’t been stinting on his description of the firestorm in the nebula. The TARDIS had ridden the turbulence like a roller coaster, and they had lain on the soft surface of the floor of the observation room, looking up at the display on the ceiling as if they were watching fireworks from a hillside, laughing like children, gasping in awe. She had even squealed with delight, grabbing his arm in excitement as a shower of gold particles spun at them from the center of an exquisite nebula that looked like the eye of a peacock feather.

As the intensity of the display had waned, they had quietened. The TARDIS showed them drifting into the Eagle Nebula, past the Fairy toward the Pillars of Creation. “I saw pictures of this when I was at school,” she had said softly. “I thought it was beautiful then, but this is amazing.”

She had turned toward him, seen the way he was looking up at the magnificent towers of dust and gas, and her throat had tightened as he lifted his arm to point, a long forefinger tracing the tip of one pillar. “There are stars and planets being born there,” he had murmured, and she had finally torn her eyes away from his haunting face to the view above. He had reached out to pull her closer, guiding her to rest her head and shoulders on his chest so that she could follow his finger as it traced out the new worlds.

The slow steady rhythm of his breathing had lulled her to sleep. And although the sky above her was still the eternal night of outer space, she had known that it was hours later when she had awakened. But he was still lying perfectly still, while she had wrapped around him for warmth and comfort. She had been embarrassed, but he had been watching her with a curious tenderness.

“Good morning.” His soft voice had slithered through her with an intensity that astonished her, and she had blushed, highly aware of her hips pressed tightly into the side of his. She had remembered him gazing at her and musing — I could save the world, but lose you — and a shiver slid down her spine.

“Are you cold?” he had asked, checking on her — Is that okay? Are you all right? — in that way that seemed to slip through her consciousness, always present, never obtrusive. Rubbing her arm had provoked another shiver and she had curled closer to him, looking up, perhaps, for a kiss.

But his eyes had been lost in the stars…

And he hadn’t slept at all, she knew that now.

The bruises were small and not particularly painful — she got worse bumps and bruises just putting away her laundry some days — but they saddened her. She gave her hair another firm brush or two and pulled it up into a scrunchie she found on the floor of her bathroom before going in search of something with longer sleeves so that he wouldn’t see the bruises.

***

Both mugs were on the table in the little breakfast nook when Rose came back, face freshly scrubbed, hair brushed and tidied back in a high ponytail, a red hoodie over her t-shirt, and thick grey athletic socks on her feet.

“Feeling better?” he asked, pushing her mug toward her as she slipped into her chair opposite him.

“Yeah, thanks.” Her smile was pale as she put milk in the tea and took a careful sip. Her eyes closed thankfully at the taste, and after a more substantial sip, she sighed and opened her eyes to him with a smile more like her usual bright grin. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said sincerely, sitting back in his chair easily, sipping his own tea.

She took another sip of tea and tugged one foot up into the seat of the chair with her, wrapping her arm around the knee on which she rested her cheek.

“You look tired,” he observed casually, noting the way she was studying the pattern her spoon made in the milk in her tea.

“Yeah, sorry,” she said, straightening and putting her foot down on the floor with a small smile. “Distracted.”

“It’s all right,” he reassured her. “Did you get some sleep?”

“Yes. A few hours, it was good.” She leaned her elbows on the table, pouring a little more milk into her tea. She seemed a little fidgety, flicking her overgrown fringe out of her eyes with her fingertips before resting her chin on her palm. She started to speak once, but hesitated and took another sip of tea. He didn’t press.

“Don’t tease him today, Jack, okay?” Her big brown eyes were shadowed as they looked up at him hopefully.

“Sure,” he agreed easily, and she relaxed a bit. “You don’t think he’ll notice?”

She shrugged, pulling her foot back up into the chair with her as she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder. “He’ll find some sort of distraction.” She took another sip of her tea.

“Should he be running around causing trouble?” He kept his tone light.

“It is what makes him happiest.” Her grin was suddenly natural, and she let her knee bounce a couple of times. “Do you want toast?”

“Sounds good.”

She got up to get bread from the pantry and put four slices in the 1950s-style chrome toaster. She stood still for a moment, watching the coils heat up, then turned around, gripping the edge of the eggshell formica counter as she leaned back against it. “We sleep together, Jack. That’s it. Just sleep.”

He was a little surprised at her almost defiant tone. “Okay.”

She chewed on the corner of her bottom lip, then pushed off the counter to cross to the refrigerator and got out the butter and a small pot of jam. “Not sure I really understand it myself,” she admitted, setting the condiments on the table, then turning away from him to retrieve the toast from the toaster. “It’s — weird, when I think about it.” She took a couple of small plates from the cupboard and cutlery from a drawer, talking as if to herself as she brought the toast to the table. “But it’s not weird when it’s happening. It feels so natural, like it’s right to be there, and that all I want to do is hold him.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Jack’s voice was soft as she sat back down across from him.

“It seems like…a totally different thing.” She struggled for words, her eyes on a point somewhere near the far corner of the ceiling. “Sometimes, y’know, I just—” She made claws of her hands and growled in a way that surprised and amused him. “I want to throw him up against one of those struts in the console room and—”

She stopped, looking down embarrassed, and Jack had to chuckle. “I’m not blaming you for that,” he said gently, taking a piece of toast and buttering it.

She looked back at him with a rueful smile. “But it’s not like that when we sleep together.”

“It sounds nice,” he said honestly.

She sighed, taking up a piece of toast herself. “I just wish he could sleep.”

Jack leaned forward in concern, just as the Doctor strolled into the galley, his step bouncing with his usual energy. “So!” He opened up the cupboard and hooked a mug out with his forefinger, spinning it around and catching it easily in his big palm. He fixed them with a bright blue gaze. “What are we going to do today?”

***

“Run!”

The Doctor’s roar seemed to set wings on his heels, and he crashed through the underbrush, reaching back to grab Rose’s hand and help pull her up the incline to the riverbank where the TARDIS stood with doors open, a beacon of safety and warmth. He and Rose collapsed, breathless on the ramp, and the Doctor shut the doors quickly, leaning against them as if to brace them as the screaming mass heaved uselessly against the exterior.

“Everybody okay?” asked the Doctor intently as Jack and Rose untangled themselves from each other, a task made significantly more difficult as they were both muddy and cold and some thorned vines were wrapped around their limbs.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t fuss,” protested Rose as Jack tried to find her face in her pink parka, which had twisted around her as they had fallen.

He let her go with a playfully resentful, “Excuse me, I was only trying to help.”

“Well — don’t,” she retorted, grunting slightly as she shifted her hips over and got her bum on the grating in order to sit up. She got hold of the tail of her muddied parka and jerked it around, so that she could glare up at the Doctor from the frame of bedraggled fake fur and her own wet, tangled hair.

Jack struggled not to smile at her mutinous expression, especially as the Doctor leaned back against the doors, arms folded across his chest, ankle swinging nonchalantly across his shin to plant the toe of his boot as his face split in one of those dazzling, irresistible grins. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Rose, evidently, could resist, even if Jack couldn’t. She pushed back the hood, reaching down to jerk at the vine wrapped loosely around her ankles with her gloved hands.

“Owww!” she cried, in frustration, shaking her hand as one of the thorns pierced the leather. The Doctor was on his knees at her feet in an instant, capturing her hand in both of his, removing her glove carefully but quickly to inspect the damage.

A bright red bead of blood grew on her palm, on the rise beneath her forefinger, and Jack watched as the Doctor brought her hand to his mouth, sucking away the blood in an instant so that he could see the puncture beneath. The sharp, strong features were intently focused as his thumb pressed against the flesh to raise another bead of blood.

Rose’s lips were parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dilated as the Doctor looked up at her, his face bare inches from hers.

Kiss her, you fool! Jack thought the line fiercely, remembering any number of Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn films where that line would have worked, but no. The Doctor simply smiled, a perfectly friendly, reassuring, non-smitten smile.

“It’s all right. Just a little nick. A little antiseptic’ll do for that.”

Rose jerked her hand out of his, blowing her fringe up off her forehead with an exasperated exhalation. “Did you have to get them all riled up?”

“How was I to know they’d think we were after their nests?” He started to take on that look of a guilty five-year-old in a pout.

“Oh, I don’t know, because you know everything,” she retorted, tugging down the zip of her parka, and slapping his hands away when he reached out to help. Jack leaned back on his elbow, grinning broadly, as the Doctor’s expression changed to that eager, elated exhilaration of discovery.

“But we got to see them unfurl their wings. Aren’t they amazing in the sunset? All red and gold and transparent!” He made a surprisingly delicate gesture of wonder, with his long fingers, unfurling them in a distinctly non-human manner that exactly mimicked the unfurling of the dragon wings they had just observed in the wild. A little more closely than they had intended.

Rose was still glaring, but Jack could see her respond to his enthusiasm, fighting the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to see them in a zoo, would you?” The Doctor seemed both defensive and disappointed at the thought, and Rose melted immediately, squeezing his arm with her still-gloved hand.

“No, of course not.” She brushed at a small patch of mud on his leather sleeve and slanted him an accusing look. “How come you’re not as messy as we are?”

He shrugged, then gave a bright, hopeful smile — sometimes he really was just like a child, mused Jack. “Genius, me. Manifests in all sorts o’ways.”

Rose’s expression was a priceless mixture of exasperation and instinctive response to his infectious smile. “Yeah, right.” She shook her head and shucked off the parka, as the Doctor began to unwind the vines around her legs with quick, clever fingers.

Jack sat up to get out of his own quilted jacket, becoming increasingly aware of the muddy jeans clinging unpleasantly to his skin. He took off his gloves and began picking at the wet laces of his boots as Rose was finally freed from the vines wrapped around her.

“Nice hot shower, hot as you can stand, and lots of soap,” prescribed the Doctor, giving her a supporting hand as she struggled to her feet, hampered by her own mud-encrusted boots and jeans. “And then meet me in the medlab, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she sighed and trudged off toward her room.

Jack was surprised as those clever long fingers went to work on the vine wrapped around his left leg, and he looked up to meet the steel-blue eyes watching him intently. “You okay, Jack?” he asked with concern, tossing away the already wilting greenery, rubbing Jack’s calf carefully through the jeans. His action made Jack not only aware of the sensitive strength of those fingers, but that his skin was scratched and itching underneath.

“I think it broke the skin,” he said, squirming a little, and in an instant, the Doctor’s fingers were at the waistband of his jeans, popping the snap and pulling down the zip.

“Hey!” Jack was taken by surprise for a moment, but lowered his voice to a soft purr as he unconsciously mirrored Rose’s action and squeezed the leather-clad arm. “Hey, slow down.” He lifted his hips for the Doctor to get the wet jeans off him. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

The Doctor didn’t even bother to roll his eyes at him, nor did he appear to notice that Jack was — rather uncomfortably — bare-assed on the grating as he lifted his calf for closer inspection. There was a scratch above his ankle, not much in itself, but the skin around it was beginning to pinken, and Jack curled his fingers through the grating to resist reaching down to scratch.

The Doctor’s long fingers wrapped around his shin, his thumb rubbing carefully over the irritated skin.

Jack’s mouth got the better of him. “Gonna kiss it better?”

The intense eyes flicked up at him. “Can’t you take anything seriously?”

“It’s just a scratch.” Jack motioned at it with his free hand. “You didn’t seem so concerned with Rose.”

“You may be allergic to the vine,” he said, with maddening sensibility. “You’re having more of a reaction to it. It’s probably not serious, but it’s not an opportunity to flirt.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” Jack leaned forward, challenging the steely eyes that locked so firmly on his. “Everything is an opportunity to flirt.”

He only had to lean forward an inch or two to take the kiss he’d wanted since he’d been tossed a banana and informed that it was a good source of potassium. Despite the cold grating underneath him and the persistent itch that seemed to get worse when he thought about it, parts of him were taking a definite interest.

The problem was, he didn’t want to take. He wanted it to be given, and that was not going to happen, as the Doctor released his leg and helped him free himself from the tangle of boots and jeans and a couple of smaller vines.

“Same thing I told Rose,” he said efficiently, giving Jack a hand to stand up. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

“Sure you don’t want to join me?” asked Jack, affecting his most teasing leer.

“Nope.” The Doctor’s cheerful refusal should have put an effective damper on his interest, but damn, if that voice didn’t drop into its deepest, most chocolate-whiskey-truffle range as he added, “But if I don’t have to amputate, I will dance with you.”

That was enough to send Jack to his shower with some alacrity.

Relict, 5/12(?) (DW, 9/J/R, Teen)

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 04:54:00 GMT

Once again, and always, great thanks to wendymr for beta reading.

On we go.

Chapter 1 - Bazaar | Chapter 2 - Maintenance | Chapter 3 - Off-Balance | Chapter Four - Whirl

Chapter 5 - Shadows

His eyes, like veiled moonlight in the near-dark, found hers, and his query was a single word. “Dinner?”

Her smile was sudden, catching her by surprise more than did the grumbling of her stomach. “Yeah. Sounds lovely.”

He looked to Jack, who nodded, adjusting his waistcoat, and the Doctor offered his arm to Rose, who took it with a mixture of the wonder she had felt way back in Cardiff in 1869 and a familiar ease that warmed her empty stomach. On the way out of the Opera House, they stopped at the cloakroom to pick up the velvet cape, which he settled expertly on her bare shoulders. She looked up at him in surprise as he came around before her, easing the loose hood over her hair.

“It’s raining,” he explained softly, his hand hesitating slightly as he reached out to brush back that stubborn strand of hair. His eyes seemed far away for a moment, then focused on her with an expectant smile as he offered her arm.

He was right, it was drizzling outside, a heavy mist that, in the cold, was definitely unpleasant, and Rose was relieved that they only walked a short way down the street to a large, lavishly furnished restaurant. The brightness of the gaslighting surprised her yet again — she couldn’t shake her ingrained image of the 19th century as dark and humourless, all evidence to the contrary — but she tried to temper her grin when the Doctor flashed his psychic paper and was greeted by a most obsequious maître d’.

They were led to a private dining room, with walnut wainscoting and a peacock-blue wallpaper, lit by a small but ornate crystal chandelier above the round table. A matching blue-green velvet chaise longue angled into one corner.

“I could get used to this,” declared Jack, flipping his tails to the side as he reclined on the chaise. He reached up to bat playfully at the large peacock feathers that bowed over the chaise, standing in a tall bronze urn between the head of the chaise and the corner, then waved his hand diffidently. “Peel me a grape.”

“You can peel your own grapes, mate,” teased Rose as the Doctor took her cape, hanging it on the coatrack in the opposite corner, and Jack grinned, stretching and folding his hands behind his head.

Letting her fingers trail lightly over the tall back of a wooden chair with a tapestry seat, Rose took in the elegant place settings and then Jack, sprawled on the chaise, ankles crossed as his feet dangled over the end. She grinned and crossed to him.

“I saw this in a movie once. Mum and I watched at Christmas, or New Year.” She draped herself dramatically across the head of the chaise, batting her eyelashes. “Barbra Streisand was afraid Omar Sharif was going to make her pay for her fine dinner on it.”

“Or afraid he wasn’t.” Jack winked at her, then looked at the Doctor, who was standing still, watching them with an inscrutable expression from across the small room. “I’m very willing to pay my way.”

Instead of the expected roll of the eyes, the Doctor met his gaze levelly. “Buy me a drink first.”

“Is that all?” Jack was off the chaise in a flash, picking up the champagne bottle that was chilling beside the table and pouring three glasses with the skill of a seasoned waiter. “All right, then.” He handed one glass to Rose, then held another out to the Doctor. “That I can do.”

“One little flaw in your plan, Jack.” The Doctor took the glass from Jack with a slightly raised eyebrow. “I’m payin’ for this champagne.”

“Well, strictly speaking, the TARDIS is paying.” Jack lifted his glass to the others. “To the TARDIS.”

The others chimed in as their glasses clinked, and a soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of two waiters and their dinner. When Jack tried to catch the attention of the handsome older man of the two, Rose was the one who rolled her eyes, and he received a sharp look from the Doctor, but soon enough they were left alone with an enticing dinner. Both men began to remove their gloves, and she looked at her own, unsure how to proceed with the long gloves.

“Here.” The Doctor took one hand in his, turning her wrist up to unfasten the button, then held her hand almost as if he were about to kiss it, except that he held her thumb in his other hand. “Now pull.”

She pulled her hand toward herself, and his fingers tightened, catching the glove as she withdrew, and it slipped off easily, all the fingers still right side out. Suddenly, her newly bare skin felt tinglingly aware of the air, and she giggled unintentionally. “That’s pretty clever.”

“Not exactly etiquette, but effective.” He winked as he laid the glove on a trolley beside his, and they repeated the action with the other glove.

“Rose.” Jack held out the chair for her, and she sat down carefully, still uncertain how she could bend in the corset.

But she was so hungry, she fell to eating her roast beef and potatoes with enthusiasm. “Mmm, this is amazing.” She speared a string bean and made a small gesture with her fork on her way to her mouth. “It’s just Sunday dinner, but better.”

“Hunger is the best sauce.” Jack’s tone was unusually even, and both his companions looked at him curiously. “What? Did I get the slang wrong again?”

“No.” Rose swallowed, realizing she needed to sit up a bit straighter. “It just sounded…”

“I’ve been hungry before, Rose,” he said, reaching out to put his hand over hers, and she was struck again by how much more sensitive she was to touch, having worn the gloves for several hours. “But it’s not anything to be upset about.”

“Of course it is,” she said, turning her hand to clasp his briefly.

“I’m dining in the highest possible style now, right?”

It was impossible not to respond to his bright smile, and she squeezed his hand briefly before letting go. “Right!”

“With the best possible company, too.” His voice dropped to an insinuating purr, and both Jack and Rose turned to look at the Doctor curiously when he made no sound and his expression failed to change as he brought a small piece of potato to his mouth.

He chewed and swallowed before giving them a remarkably innocent look. “What?”

Jack grinned and leaned back in his chair. “So why did the maître d’ call you Colonel Johann Schmidt?”

The Doctor shrugged, a strikingly familiar movement of his broad shoulders under the unfamiliar evening clothes. “Psychic paper shows him what he expects to see. ’Spose he figures that’s my rank in this society – the Austro-Hungarian Empire is one of the more militaristic in Earth history.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of you as the military type,” mused Jack, taking a long look at the Doctor’s sharp profile.

“’M not,” he retorted indignantly, his eyes not meeting either Rose’s or Jack’s as he took a sip of water than might almost have qualified as a swig. He turned his attention to cutting his meat, and as Jack and Rose went back to their dinners, they nearly missed his faint mutter. “Usually.”

They exchanged quick glances before their eyes returned to the Doctor. Rose had never thought of it, but despite the heavy boots and shorn hair, he certainly didn’t strike her as either a soldier or an officer. Strangely, she found she could see him more as an engineer or an artist, a priest or a scholar, a teacher of some sort. His long fingers were slender but strong, so quick with machinery, but so sensitive as they had drawn music from that mysterious little instrument in van Statten’s museum stash. Rose had blushed at the provocative shape of the instrument, the flush that had crept over her skin raising the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck, and she had not been sure whether it was because of the ethereal sound or the suggestive movement of his fingers, or some combination of both. A ghost of a shiver passed over her, and the Doctor was quick to notice.

“Are you cold, Rose?” he asked.

“No, I’m all right,” she said with a smile, putting her hand to her abdomen in the restrictive corset. “Although it’s not easy to eat much in this thing.”

“Loosen the corset.” His response was matter-of-fact as he took another sip of the red wine that had come with the dinner.

“If I do that, I’ll never get this dress fastened again,” she chuckled.

“That’s all right. You can just loosen it – once you put the cape on again, no one’s going to notice when we walk back to the TARDIS.”

Rose took a sip of water, flustered. It was such reasonable advice. It wasn’t like they hadn’t already seen her in a tank top and shorts. And still, the idea of being slightly…undone in their presence was startling. “I—I’m not sure I can do it by myself. The TARDIS was helping me before — I’m not sure how, but I know she was.”

“Stand up.”

She was on her feet before he was, her eyes skittering away from Jack’s. The Doctor put his hands lightly on her bare shoulders, turning her away from him. An oval mirror in an ornate frame on the wall opposite reflected her astonished face as the Doctor’s long fingers worked lightly at the hooks and eyes at the base of her bodice. She caught her breath as she felt his touch through the layers of fabric in the small of her back. He opened the dress a few inches up to her mid-back. And then he was working at the ties of the corset, fingers sliding through the laces to ease their tension.

With his firm tug, she fell back against him, and his big hands slid around her waist, easing the boned fabric of the corset beneath the dress. Suddenly, she could take a deep breath again, and for a moment — one, two, three uneven inhalations — it was like gulping water after running for her life. But then she relaxed, a warm flush spreading over her as he let her rest against his chest.

“That better?” he asked softly, his breath stirring the hair at her ear, the side of her neck, and another shiver crossed her skin. His thumbs were rubbing gently at her ribs, and her hand fluttered to her neckline, her fingertips discovering the expanse of skin revealed by the dress, latching onto the relative solidity of the delicate pendant. Only then did she realize her eyes had drifted closed, and she forced them open, to see that the dress still covered her modestly — well, as much as it ever had — and that his eyes were burning into hers in her reflection. They had never looked so blue, or so hot, and her mouth was so dry…

“Here, take my place,” he said gently, guiding her into his chair, which had faced the door, placing her back against the wall. “No one can see from there if they walk in.”

He took her place opposite her, and it was only as Jack got up and left the room that she quite remembered he’d been there throughout.

“Where is he going?” she asked, still cloudy from the reverie that the Doctor had just effortlessly wound around her.

“Absolutely no telling.” The slight edge of exasperation and the shake of his head amused Rose, despite her disappointment of having the moment dispelled. She turned her eyes down to the plate he had deserted, and realized it was still full — meat and potatoes neatly cut in similarly-sized chunks, arranged in neat rows — while she had left a half-eaten plate before him.

She knew he rarely ate much, but given his turn this morning — she had a brief, vivid burst of remembering him fitting on the grating of the console room and felt momentarily ill — she was concerned.

“Here, take your plate,” she offered, but he waved it off.

“That’s okay. Eat – you haven’t eaten much all day.”

“You sound like my mum,” she teased, and got the hoped-for response.

“Oi, watch it,” he warned, leaning forward on an elbow to point a fork at her, and she grinned as she put a string bean into her mouth.

“Well, damn.” Jack shook his head sadly as he came back in the room. “I thought for sure you’d both be naked and wrestling on the chaise by now. I was ready to take on the winner.”

The Doctor leaned back to watch Jack slide into his chair. “Where’ve you been?”

“Just taking care of a little business.” Jack winked, and took up his fork again.

Rose was much less concerned about eating heartily these days, considering the amount of physical activity she got, but she kept an eye on the Doctor as he and Jack bantered lightly about something vaguely mechanical. She recognized some of his avoidance techniques, pushing the food around on the plate, trading a piece of potato for a piece of meat on his fork, but eating almost nothing.

Another knock at the door brought an elaborate torte and coffee for dessert, and the handsome waiter brought a large, bowl-shaped glass of a rich, dark gold liquor and placed it, with a kind of surreptitious ostentation, in front of the Doctor.

“What’s this?” asked the Doctor, and the waiter made a small bow.

“The gentleman requested it for you, sir.”

The Doctor’s eyes slid from the waiter to Jack’s, and Rose caught her lip in her teeth, unsure whether she was excited or unnerved by the gaze locked between them, storm and sky, as the waiter melted away.

The moment seemed to stretch out into an eternity before the Doctor reached out and took the glass in his large palm, swirling the thick liquor under his nose before taking a sip. His eyes closed in obvious pleasure at the taste, then opened, dilated and the colour of smoked crystal, to Jack.

He spoke no word of thanks, but where Rose had expected challenge or smugness, Jack’s face registered only gratification.

***

“Do I get my dance?” Jack did a little sliding step along the ramp up to the console, turning with a flourish to open his arms.

“Not tonight.” The Doctor took Rose’s cape from her, draping it over his arm as the TARDIS doors swung shut behind them.

Jack put his hands on his hips. “And I bought you a drink and everything. Hmmph.”

“Aren’t you tired?” asked Rose, aware that her own eyes were heavy.

“Nope. Well, not much. Not enough to pass up a dance.”

“I promised you, Jack. Just…not tonight.” said the Doctor, an edge of tiredness Rose had not heard in weeks in his voice, and as she looked up at him, she saw a ghost of that horrible look of emptiness in his eyes. There’s no one… I would know.

“I can live with a raincheck.” Jack’s expression softened as he came down the ramp to meet them. “Goodnight, Rose.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead sweetly, then turned to the Doctor. “Goodnight.” He took his face in his hands and kissed his cheek, then bounded up the ramp again, turning to wave, “Goodnight!” as he disappeared down the corridor.

Rose watched him go, then turned to the Doctor, her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked, searching his face as he looked down at the toes of his highly polished shoes.

“I’m fine.” His voice was warm, but his smile was obviously tired as he looked up at her. “Did you have a good time?”

The hopefulness in his eyes, so transparent, brought a twinge to the back of her throat, and she wound her arms around his waist, underneath the tails. His mother-of-pearl shirt stud pressed into her cheek, but she concentrated only on the solidity of him as his arms came around her. “It was beautiful,” she swore passionately. “Thank you so much.”

“Good. ’M glad,” he murmured, one hand cupping her head briefly before he set her back from him. “Time you were in bed, I think.”

“Yeah,” she half-laughed. “And as lovely as it is, I won’t be half glad to be out of this dress.”

The Doctor grinned, his eyes still burning blue, and she gathered up her skirts to climb the ramp.

In her room, Rose divested herself of the layers of clothing, draping them over a chair to return to the wardrobe room in the morning, and after a relaxing hot shower that made her less tired but more sleepy, she put on her red yoga pants and a pink t-shirt. She pulled back the duvet on the bed, looking longingly at the fresh flannel sheets, but she could not quite shake the feeling that she needed to check on the Doctor.

He wasn’t in the console room, or the galley, or the library, and her concern grew as she found herself outside a door she recognized. The sense of déjà vu as she lifted her hand to knock was overwhelming, and the door sighed ajar before she touched it.

She caught her breath and knocked lightly anyway, curling her fingers tightly around the edge of the door to keep it from opening further. When there was no response, she looked carefully around the door into the half-dark room.

Light from the corridor fell across the plain linoleum floor of the small chamber, across the end of the iron daybed that stood against one bare wall. At first, she could see only his legs, still in the evening trousers, and his bare feet, long, narrow, pale, on the nondescript greyish-tan of the flooring. But as she opened the door, she could see him sitting on the bed, one shoe overturned beside him, the sock spilling out, the other shoe held loosely in his fingers. His other hand supported his bowed head, his elbow on his knee, and the waves of exhaustion coming from him were palpable. The evening jacket was placed on the straight back of the wooden chair at the roll-top desk — besides the bed, the only other furniture in the room. The waistcoat and tie were tossed on the open surface of the desk, amongst books, papers, a mechanical pencil and an old-fashioned quill pen and inkpot, and several small bits of circuitry and mechanical detritus.

In the shadows, his shoulders drew a narrow arc in the white shirt, and she could almost see the delineation of every muscle and bone in his bowed back through the taut, fine material.

“Doctor?”

Her soft query genuinely startled him, his head jerking up, and she could see that his eyelashes were wet, pale skin stretched tautly over every sharp angle of his face.

“Are you all right?” she asked, on her knees at his feet before she could think.

He straightened, taking a sharp inhalation through his nose as he stretched his back, and the back of his hand brushed briefly across his nose and cheekbone as he said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, y’know.”

The indirect light left his eyes in shadow, but she could see the glimmer of tears before he blinked them away.

“I know,” she said softly, taking the shoe from him and putting it on the floor with its mate. She had no idea where the other sock was, and didn’t care. Without the shirt studs, his starched shirt gaped open, revealing flat, hard muscles and too-prominent breastbone and ribs, faintly softened by a dusting of pale hair, and she reached up to put her hand carefully over his hearts. The phantom of dark bruises and pale, thin burns thickened her throat, but she saw only unmarked skin, her thumb tracing the memory of an ugly fist-shaped mark at the arch of his ribs. “You need to rest.”

She knelt up, sliding her hands toward his shoulders, but in an instant, his hands stopped hers with a high yelp that might have been “No!”

“’S all right. It’s all right,” she soothed, subsiding against her heels as his hands curved around hers gently.

He bowed his forehead against their clasped hands, murmuring first, “No,” and then, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she reassured him. “We’ve been here before, yeah?”

A soft sound, perhaps a laugh, perhaps a sob, escaped him, and he lifted his head with a rueful little smile. “Not the adventure you signed up for, though, is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke over his close-cropped hair.

“It doesn’t?”

“No.” She shook her head firmly, and knelt up more slowly, her forehead finding his as her hand massaged the rock-hard muscles at the nape of his neck. “Do you want to change into something more comfortable?”

He shook his head slightly and let her guide him back against the bed. His shoulder and side were tight against the wall, leaving just enough room for her to curl against him, in his arms.

“It’s all right.” She moved her hand soothingly across his shirtfront and bare chest, settling against his side. She slid one knee across his long thigh, just to hold him closer, and she could feel him beginning to relax. “Go to sleep.”

“You know there might be nightmares,” he warned her, his fingertips drawing a light pattern on her shoulder through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.

“’S all right,” she reassured him sleepily. “If you try to fight them, they just get worse, yeah?”

His fingers hesitated, then slid into her hair as she tilted her head back to find his eyes. They were nearly colourless, but full of light in the near dark. A tiny, bittersweet smile quirked one side of his mouth. “Yeah,” he admitted finally.

“Yeah.” The wide yawn took her by surprise, and they both chuckled softly as they settled down against each other. His breathing was so deep and slow, it was almost like being rocked, and despite her concern for him, Rose was asleep before he took his third breath.

His rhythm faltered faintly, and he turned his face away from her in the darkness, fighting the overwhelming impulse to cry out his rage.

Something Borrowed (9/R, Adult)

Mon, 07 Apr 2008 00:19:58 GMT

A comment-fic (or "smut-tennis" as it was dubbed by dameruth) inspired by wendymr's drabble "Little Black Number". You do have to read that first before this will make any sense at all!

Title: Something Borrowed
Authors: wendymr and nina_ds @ ninamusing
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Nine/Rose
Rating: Adult
Spoilers: Uh... wardrobe, through Boom Town?
Disclaimer: Not ours. Just playing dress-up.
Author's notes: Thanks to dark_aegis for beta-reading.

Something Borrowed
by Ninamusing and wmr

"Give it me back." His voice is a low purr, edged with danger.

And she responds, with an impish grin, "Come and get it."

"Rooooose," he warns, taking a step around the console.

She grins, her hands stroking the lapels, down to the makeshift belt, but she squeaks as he makes a sudden, unexpected move around the other side of the console. Before she realises it, they're rolling on the grating, and she's on top of him, hair spilling in his face as he looks up at her with eyes like thunder.

"You're gettin' it all out of shape," he warns her.

"What, you sayin' you don't like my shape, Doctor?"

His gaze intensifies and his eyes darken even further. She glances down at herself to see that the front of the jacket's gaping wide and she's completely exposed to his view.

This is new, so new it’s thrilling and terrifying at the same time. They’ve flirted, danced around the attraction that sparks between them any time they touch, any time their gazes hold for more than a second or two, but he’s never let it get any further than that. Even this time, dressing in his jacket to tease him, she was sure he’d just dismiss her, send her away as if she were a child playing silly games.

He’s not, and she’s barely breathing as she looks down at him.

He lunges upwards, and she jumps as a cool tongue rasps over a protruding nipple.

The fingers of one hand lace through the grating as she fights for balance, her other hand holding his head, fingers splayed, his close-cropped hair a sensual contrast against her palm. A soft moan escapes as she holds him to her, his hands — huge hands, but sensitive to every dip and curve — move over her waist and hips, spreading around to pull her closer.

"’S not fair!" she cries softly and, to her amazement and utter disappointment, he stops, cocking his head to look at her with alert curiosity.

"What?"

"You've got on way more clothes."

"So it's my fault you decided my jacket was more comfortable than your clothes?"

In a single movement, he rolls her over, gently laying her down on the grating, then sits back on his heels and yanks his navy sweater over his head, revealing to her hungry gaze an expanse of hard, muscled chest. He leans down, his hands spanning her waist inside the jacket, his lips tantalisingly close to hers yet not quite touching.

His words whisper against her lips. " 'f you want any more gone, you'll have to do it yourself."

With a determined grin, she reaches for his belt, but her hands want to take the scenic route, mapping flat muscles, taut nipples, surprisingly thick blond chest hair, following a trail downward that disappears beneath his waistband.

She wants to be so sure and confident as she dares lift her eyes from their task to find his. Always intense at close quarters, the blue irises seem positively incandescent limning bottomless black pupils. He murmurs softly, "Other way," as she fumbles with the buckle.

"I know," she retorts, flustered but successful, and he just grins, catching his breath as she slides the zip down with a bit more force than strictly necessary. Her hand is there instinctively, to soothe, to protect, and the combination of soft hair and cool skin is both familiar and alien. Her hands echo his earlier travels, and his body arches over hers even as his head dips.

His tongue teases hers just a moment before his lips brush, teeth catching on her lower lip, and she pushes his jeans down for a better grip as his mouth takes hers deeply.

The kiss is everything she had hoped, nothing like she imagined. She had thought stars and nebulae and galaxies all awhirl; instead, it's infinitely dark, mysterious, enticing, like velvet, like chocolate, like the vortex opening beneath her feet.

It's not the laugh that embarrasses her so much as the snort that comes with it.

"What?" He's smiling sympathetically with her laughter as he lifts his head, his hand stroking her hair.

"Can't get your jeans off. You've still got your boots on," she explains.

"Oh." He takes stock of the situation, and his eyes return to hers with a challenge. "You can get them off," he points out. "You just can't do it in this position."

"That a challenge, Doctor?" She grins, letting her tongue poke out between her teeth. If he's trying to throw her off-balance - first that amazing kiss and then throwing an obstacle in her path - he's about to find out just how resourceful Rose Tyler is.

She trails her fingers lightly along his side, just barely touching his skin, and he yelps, jerking slightly. She uses the momentum of his body to roll him sideways and off her, and before he can stop her she's straddling him, facing away from him, her bum resting just above the waistband of his underwear, skin against skin. Leaning forward, she yanks at his shoelace. The knot slides open and she grapples with his Doc Marten for a few seconds until it yields. Triumphant, she hurls it across the console room, then repeats her actions with the second boot.

After that, the jeans are easy. A couple of quick shoves and he's free of them, and then she can spin around, slide down to straddle his thighs, and focus her attention on the one part of him that's still clothed. The black briefs do nothing whatsoever to disguise his interest in events, and she raises her gaze to his face, meeting his azure gaze with a grin. "That a sonic screwdriver in your underwear, Doctor...?"

He leans forward suddenly, and his hand clamps around her wrist. "Why don't you find out?"

Slowly, holding his gaze, she licks her lips, and suppresses a surge of excitement at the way his eyes darken again. "Think I might."

Before he can react, she's freed her hand and then she's hooking both thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down and releasing his erection. It looks human enough, but... well, he is alien.

She bends, lips parted, eager to taste him.

A smoky scent insinuates itself into her nostrils, lingering on her tongue, and she feels the thrum in her belly focus downward as her mouth begins to water, a reaction that surprises her. The long, hard muscles of his thighs tremble beneath her hands, and he curls up to watch.

She looks up through her lashes to watch him as she extends her tongue slowly, trying to regain her sense of teasing control. As her tongue strokes him, his breath catches and his penis jerks against the tight muscles of his belly. She curls her fingers around him.

The taste is sharp, clean, and her eyes close as she slides down, then pulls back, sucking against the movement. She could swear she hears him whimper and his body tenses, but the fingers that gather her hair back from her face are gentle. She slides her free hand up his thigh to his belly in a soothing circuit over the sharp rise of his hipbone, pressing him back against the grating as he rises to meet her.

Wanting to test his patience, she teases, swirling her tongue around the tip, darting lower then returning to the head, while her fingers lightly caress his balls. His breathing grows laboured, shaky.

After one more pass in which she fails to take him all the way in, he surges, catching her by the shoulders, drawing her up to his chest so their bodies are flush, then rolling them, his movements controlled so as not to hurt her, until she's flat on her back on the discarded jacket.

He parts her thighs with his leg, shifting until his hardness is pressed right at the edge of her entrance, and sparkling blue eyes stare down into hers. "Now who's in charge?"

She catches her breath, raising her thigh against his as her fingertips slide down his back, provoking a delicious shiver and a sharp dilation of his eyes. "I think…"

"You think…?" He teases her with a slight, testing brush.

"I think…" she drawls as her hands come up to curl around his sharp shoulder blades.

Her ankle hooks around his knee, and with a sudden thrust of her pelvis, she's able to flip him over and is on top of him again in an instant, one hand on his chest to hold him down, one guiding him.

"That would be me." She declares victory as she sinks down, even as a powerful shiver of pleasure passes visibly over her skin.

He watches, fascinated, as she moves, and he curls one arm behind his head as his other hand reaches down. "Yes," he muses softly, his big thumb finding a breathtakingly delicate way to tease her. "It would be you."

She opens eyes she hadn't even realised she'd closed, and the look on his face amazes her.

"For now," he adds, a mischievous grin lighting up his face.

There's another challenge in that; the unspoken words she reads in his expression are so let's see what you're going to do with it. She rides him, setting a pace that's steady and even at first, until he starts to match her movements, and then she takes him by surprise with a different rhythm. She always did have good pelvic floor control and strong thighs, and the way his breath hitches and his fingers jerk against her bum tells her that he's definitely benefiting from it - and enjoying it. She laughs, enjoying her triumph, and he grins in return, hooking a hand around the back of her head and tugging her down to meet his kiss.

"You like that?" she murmurs as his lips trail to her jaw.

He pulls back and grins. "Not bad. Need a bit more to be – " She squeezes her muscles around him again, and his eyes close.

"What was that you were saying?" She grins down at him; it's not often anyone gets the better of this man, and she's going to make the most of it. She's going to make him scream yet.

Until, abruptly, he seizes control again, surging up to meet her undulations, and then suddenly flipping them once more. "Now, Rose Tyler," he breathes, the Northern accent more pronounced than ever. "Now you're gonna see how a Time Lord does it."

Her breath catches and she stares up at him, wide-eyed in anticipation. His smile is saturnine and his eyes - oh, she feels as if she's staring into eternity as he looms over her.

"Doctor..."

His mouth takes her gasp and turns it into a moan on his tongue. The fingers of his one hand slide into her hair, cradling her head, and her knees reach up toward his ribs as her fingers dig into his back. He's deep inside her, tongue working in counterpoint, and she gasps, her toes curling into his thighs. The movement is subtle, but another slow surge seems to caress her body inside and out.

His lips and tongue slide over her chin, and she arches back beneath him, tightening on him as his teeth graze the side of her throat. She is rewarded with a soft exhalation that caresses her breast and sets off a shiver in her body that quivers around him, pulling him deeper.

Then he's pushing up on his knees, his hands smoothing over her shoulders and breasts, around her waist. She understands immediately, pulling herself up into his arms, and she moves subtly, finding a place that makes both of them moan as she sinks further down.

She is reflected in the depths of his pupils. Her hair is beginning to cling to her face and neck, one corner of her lower lip trapped between her teeth until he leans forward to suck it into his mouth. She rubs her hands possessively over the soft bristles of his closely-shorn hair, and her nipples brush the hair on his chest as she moves against him.

"Wait — hold on."

She stares at him in disbelief as he pulls back. "I swear to God, if you're going to have second thoughts now—" she growls.

"N—no," he pants, giving her a dirty look as she tightens on him in retaliation. "Just—" He kisses her again, hard, unexpected, then surges to his feet with remarkable grace, considering his position and her weight wrapped around him. In two steps, he has her in the cushions of the oversized chair at the edge of the console. Her hands grip the edge of the seat for leverage, and his teeth nip lightly at her breast, her collarbone, the curve of her neck on the way up to her mouth.

"Grating," he breathed, his forehead resting briefly against hers as he gathers her in his arms, her knees caught up in the embrace. "Hard on the knees."

She lets her head fall back in laughter, her body trilling around his as the TARDIS's background hum roughens into a grumble.

"You poor old man," she says impishly as the laughter dies away.

"Oi! Less of the old." His hips grind into hers, and he does something with his fingers that causes her to gasp. "Time Lord, me. Told you. Two hearts, for one thing. Let's see who gets worn out sooner." A grin flashes, his eyes twinkle mischievously at her and he returns his complete attention to the task at hand.

Oh, endurance test, is it? She wraps her legs around his hips, drawing him in closer, holding him, feeling the strong muscles of his thighs and buttocks, under her skin. He responds by rotating his lower body slowly, rhythmically, sending sensations spiralling through her, making her breathless. God. One more stroke of a long finger against her clitoris, and suddenly she's crying out, shuddering against him, clinging to him as she throws her head back, gasping.

"One-love to me," he comments with obvious satisfaction as she comes down from the high, and immediately withdraws, then surges back into her.

She clenches her muscles around him again, and at the same time reaches down, sliding her hand between their bodies until she's able to cup his balls. A bit of squeezing, a bit of fondling and a couple of carefully-timed movements of her hips and suddenly she's got him. He gasps, arching his spine and his neck, the sheer beauty of his profile starkly visible to her as he inhales sharply, letting his orgasm rush through him.

Then he's looking straight at her again, making her drown in his gaze. "You cheated."

Her mouth falls open in astonishment. "How was that ever cheating?" she asks indignantly.

His eyes twinkle dangerously. "You used your hands."

"So did you," she retorts, eyes blazing but not unaware of their hands still exploring lazily, bodies still seeking each other out.

"Yeah, but you rushed me. I could have given you at least two more orgasms before I came."

"Ooh, big talk," she teases, her fingers drawing lightly along the grooves of his ribs and provoking a distinct shudder in his body.

"I could!"

"Oh, I'm sure," she swears, fingertips creeping toward his armpits. "You are sooo impressive."

"I am!"

"I know." She slants him a grin and tweaks a nipple lightly as she leans against him, stretching up for a kiss. "I've just had an excellent demonstration."

He growls playfully as he bends to kiss her, pulling her closer, and she locks her ankles around his waist, hands running up his shoulders to rake through his surprisingly enticing hair.

"Ready for another go?" he asks tenderly, smoothing her hair back from her flushed face, and she nods.

"You know what would be really sexy and adventurous?" She looks at him teasingly as her forefinger slides downward from the deep notch in his collarbone, down the centre of his chest.

"The console?" he guesses, and she shakes her head and repeats the movement after he suggests, "The swimming pool? The gym? The butterfly room?"

"My bed." Her voice deepens in a way that surprises even her, and her body reacts pleasurably, provoking a definite response in his. "That's where I want you."

For the briefest moment, she thinks she sees tears in his eyes, but he just takes her head in his hands and kisses her lips almost chastely. Almost.

The heat of exertion starts to abate, and a shiver passes over her. He rubs her arms briefly, his eyes darkening to cobalt blue. With a soft sigh, they separate, and he turns to retrieve the jacket lying crumpled near the console. Hugging her knees to her chest, she watches him appreciatively as he leans over to pick it up. He shakes it out, turning the sleeves right side out with a faintly accusatory look at her, and she grins cheekily. But her thanks are genuine as he puts it around her shoulders.

"Whatever can I do to repay you for the loan of your jacket?" she offers with mock humility, and his fingertip traces the curve of her cheek before tapping the tip of her nose.

"I'm sure I can think of something."

She takes another visual tour of his long legs, and, as she slides off the chair, muses, "I've got this cute little denim miniskirt…" He rolls his eyes and slides his arm through hers, guiding her into the interior of his magnificent timeship.

As their laughter echoes down the corridor, thousands of tiny nanomachines start laying a soft, springy surface over the grating.

Relict, 4/? (DW, 9/J/R, Teen)

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 22:38:12 GMT

Author's notes: First, thanks as always to wendymr for a great beta. I have gone against her advice in one place, so if you spot a mistake, that would be me. Second, I have taken some architectural liberties with the building in question, but there was no way to make this work without building an addition. And third, sincere apologies to anyone who has been following this story and wondering where the hell it went, particularly dark_aegis, for whom it is written. My writing muse decided to take a well-earned holiday without my permission, but at least she's now texting messages from the Bahamas.

Chapter 1 - Bazaar | Chapter 2 - Maintenance | Chapter 3 - Off-Balance

***

The grin on Rose’s face and the slight pinkening of the Doctor’s ears as he smiled — a sweet, almost childlike expression with a shy dip of his head — clued Jack in that there was some shared history in that little exchange, and he found himself grinning like a loon. He had no idea what specifically was passing between them, but it was part of their charm that that kind of knowledge was unnecessary. The emotions were transparent enough, as Rose leaned into the Doctor’s side, a shoulder-bump that was playful, intimate, and totally incongruous, given their elegant evening wear.

“Fair enough.” The Doctor flipped his gloves into his free hand, letting the soft kid slip across his palm. His eyes softened as they took in Rose from head to foot, coming back up to linger on the expanse of skin above the champagne beads. “That dress needs a necklace.”

Jack lifted an eyebrow, opening his mouth to make a comment about the Doctor’s sudden interest in accessorizing, but Rose pre-empted him by putting a hand to her throat and turning back to the mirror. “I know.” She pouted thoughtfully. “These earrings were set out, but I didn’t see anything else. Oh!” A light clearly went on over her head. “I’ve got just the thing. Meet you in the console room, yeah?”

“Don’t take an hour.” The Doctor’s resigned sigh— like that of any human boyfriend/lover/husband throughout the centuries – caused Jack to stifle the snort that accompanied his grin as Rose gathered her skirt carefully over her left arm and headed out for her room at a pace more suited to her usual trainers than the gold-embroidered bronze silk dancing slippers she now wore.

The Doctor shook his head indulgently, then looked at Jack with a disconcerting directness. Sometimes the vivid heat of those steely eyes could surprised him, and Jack held out his elbow in invitation.

Those eyes rolled, and Jack shrugged, sliding his gloved hand into the curve of the Doctor’s elbow instead. After the briefest of hesitations, the Doctor turned, escorting a broadly grinning Jack out of the wardrobe room.

At the ramp leading out the TARDIS doors, Jack made a show of flipping his tails over the railing before leaning back against it as he watched the Doctor put on his gloves. Jack was not unfamiliar with the erotic effect of the small, everyday action in an unexpected context. The strong, callused hands slipped into the fine, white material of the gloves, calling attention to the elegance of the long fingers and slender wrists. With practiced skill, the Doctor smoothed the gloves between his fingers, and he lifted an eyebrow at Jack.

He was about to speak, it seemed, when Rose came rushing into the room, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, bosom heaving rather dangerously in the tight, low-cut dress. The look on the Doctor’s face — impassive on first glance, impassioned when really seen — moved Jack unexpectedly, and he watched the silvery eyes dilate in a thankfully normal physiological response before turning to Rose with a smile.

She had put on the simple brown stone pendant from the markets at Axhe, which seemed to glow with a golden sheen within its delicate spiral against her skin. “Do you think it’s too simple?” she asked, touching the pendant nervously.

Jack spoke up quickly, “Not at all,” almost stepping on the Doctor’s warm, “It’s perfect,” as the Time Lord offered his arm to Rose with courtly grace and ease.

She was glowing from exertion, excitement, and happiness as she took the Doctor’s arm, and Jack grinned to himself as he took the Doctor’s other arm.

The steely blue eyes gazed down at him (How did he do that, when there was no appreciable difference in their heights?), and Jack thought for a moment. “What? Oh. When are we going?”

“1892. Vienna Opera Ball.”

“Right.” Jack slipped around to offer Rose his other arm.

“What happened at the Vienna Opera Ball in 1892?” she asked as the doors swung open to a dark back street, cobblestones sheened with frost and the sounds of horses, carriages, and voices not far away.

“Absolutely nothing,” declared the Doctor. “Nothin’ but drinking champagne and dancing.”

“Wine, women, and song,” agreed Jack.

“So, it’s okay for me to arrive with two blokes, but not for you to come with one of each?” Rose was amused, then caught her breath as the Doctor snagged a black velvet hooded cape from the coat-rack near the door and held it for her to put on.

“It’s not that they’re not doing things that way these days, it’s just that they don’t let it be known in public,” explained Jack. “You’ll be causing enough talk with the two of us.” He winked, and Rose grinned, carefully pulling the hood over her hair.

“That’s all right, then.” She held out both hands, and her two blokes escorted her out of the TARDIS and down the narrow road to a broad, busy avenue.

“Wow, it is 1892,” observed Jack, checking the panel on his wristcomp tucked between his sleeve and his glove.

The Doctor drew himself up even taller. “Is that some kind of slur on my navigational skills?”

“Of course not,” Jack’s response was quick, but Rose’s smothered giggle ruined his innocent look and while the two of them were giggling, the Doctor shook his head and led them to the large, well-lit building with the colonnaded front.

***

She’d been to St. Paul’s and to Westminster Abbey on school trips, so Rose was not as overwhelmed by the architecture of the Opera House as she was by the dazzling gaslight. The brilliant glow was so different from the muted, haunted light of Cardiff, amplified by the resonance of the live orchestra and the whirl of people on the parquet floor of the grand ballroom of the Opera House.

The three of them did draw some curious looks as they entered, but Rose was proud of her two handsome escorts, and some impish part of her would have liked to have seen the reaction if Jack had stayed on the Doctor’s arm. Jack snagged a glass of champagne from a table and handed it to her with a wink as he picked up another for the Doctor, who declined it with a slight motion of his gloved hand.

“Shouldn’t we eat something first?” she asked, suddenly aware that it had been several hours since their last meal, and even if she’d eaten her salad instead of playing with it, she’d have been hungry by now. “Wasn’t I promised dinner along with dancing?”

“After the ball,” promised the Doctor. “That’s the convention here, and now. That all right?” For a moment, she was caught in the intensity of his stormy gaze, tinged with genuine concern, and her breath hitched in the unaccustomed corset. Covering, she nodded and lifted the champagne to her lips, looking out at the ballroom floor.

As she watched the dancers whirling by at a tempo she did not normally associate with the waltz, she was keenly aware of the reality of the moment. They were on a planet — her planet, to be sure, but in a time and a situation almost alien to her — spinning around a rather nondescript yellow sun in a celestial backwater. But right here, right now, they were hurtling through space and time, planet around sun, electrons around protons, galaxy in pirouette, the swirl of bright silk and satin skirts…

The atmosphere of the ballroom after the frosty night air was humid and warm, and as the alcohol hit her taste buds and the bubbles assaulted her sinuses, Rose felt as if she might be flung free of the spinning planet, bodysurfing the Vortex…

“Rose.”

The Doctor’s voice, so soft it slipped in beneath the rush of music and conversation, was like the brush of his hand against hers, but when she looked up in anticipation of his attention, he was looking out at the dancers, hands clasped behind him in an almost military stance. She took the moment to trace his familiar features, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, his smoothly shaven cheeks and throat. She searched for any trace of this morning’s sudden turn, but there was only a faint shadow of blue bruising along his jaw. Instead, she was struck instead by how beautifully cut his angular features were. She knew his face as well as she had ever known anyone’s, and still, sometimes, he took her by surprise.

As if feeling her gaze, he turned to her, sharp features softening in almost a smile, and he let one hand drop to his side, on an arc toward her as he took a breath.

“May I have this dance?”

She was going to kill him.

The Doctor’s gaze broke with hers as it swung to Jack, standing there with his hand extended in best formal manner, and she closed her eyes briefly on the surge of disappointment, willing the Doctor speak, to make the invitation she was so sure he had been about to offer. Instead, he was all dazzling smile and sudden relaxation of his taut posture.

“Perfect! Champagne, music, handsome partner, what more could you want at the Viennese Opera Ball? Off you go, then.”

The bright, cheery tone was going to get him a kick in the shins one of these days. It was the same one he’d used to get rid of her and Adam on Satellite Five, and she didn’t fall for that kind of brush-off twice. The way he pushed his palms forward — such a familiar gesture, in those unfamiliar gloves — as if shooing them onto the dance floor. Like she was a cat underfoot. Torn between digging in her heels and flouncing off in a huff, she set her champagne glass carefully on a passing tray and turned to Jack with an overbright smile.

“Of course you may, sir!” She placed her hand carefully in his and reached down, almost automatically, to gather up the train of the skirt. At least the adrenaline rush was sharpening her reflexes, and although she hadn’t waltzed since ballet lessons in infant school, she found it easy to fall into the rhythm of the dance, rushing into the interlocking circles like finding the right moment to run into the jump rope.

The live orchestra filled up the ballroom, but, surprisingly, without the enveloping sound of electronic amplification, Rose found she could still hear Jack when he smiled and said, “Don’t worry. This’ll work.”

“I’ve waltzed before, Jack.” Her voice was a bit brittle. Her smile had faded quickly as she felt the knot of disappointment in her belly tightening, drawing in more of her nerves and muscles.

“Nah, I meant him.” A slight nod of his head indicated the Doctor, now half the length of the dance floor away, still standing in his “at-ease” position, face impassive, eyes burning gaslight blue even at this distance. “It’ll do him good to know you’re not just waiting for him to ask.”

She bit the inside of her lip hard on the whine, But I aaaaaam. She turned her head to spot him again, and again as they turned. Her doubt surely showed in her eyes as she finally looked up at Jack, rounding the first corner of the ballroom. “Don’t think you can make him jealous, Jack. He’ll either be snide, or he’ll shut down.”

“You think that’s not jealous?” Jack grinned. “Sounds like jealous to me.”

Rose tried to capture another glimpse of the Doctor, but he was obscured by the silken swirl of dancers between them.

“Don’t worry,” repeated Jack, more tenderly. “I know what I’m doing.”

Rose made a face, betraying her youth unintentionally as they danced across the far end of the ballroom, in front of the orchestra.

“Look at me, Rose.” Jack’s voice held a note of challenge.

She met his challenge with her eyes.

“Relax. Listen to the music – hear how the second beat is drawn out?”

Distracted by his seeming non-sequitur, Rose found herself listening, and after a few measures, the rhythm suddenly seemed to deepen, as if it had gone from carrying her across the floor to moving up and down as well, as if she were riding a carousel.

“That’s it,” purred Jack, putting a little extra snap in his turn as she let her right toe trail in a semi-circle against the parquet floor before sweeping it behind her. “Not all beats are created equal.”

She felt a grin spread across her face as they whirled across the floor, a balance point poised perfectly between them. She’d never imagined waltzing could be so much fun, and the fun started to take the edge off her resentment.

The waltz came to an end, and she giggled as she curtseyed before Jack’s deep bow. Though as they applauded the orchestra, her eyes were searching those standing on the edge of the dancefloor. Almost before thinking about it, she began walking back to the tables where she had left him.

He wasn’t there.

The orchestra began the introduction to the next dance, and people began to form up once more. She turned, her eyes searching, unconsciously worrying the gold wire spiral of her pendant.

“Fräulein, may I have this dance?”

She looked up into blue eyes, knowing they wouldn’t be his. Tall, slender, military uniform, neatly cut blond hair. Not very much older than she was. It was odd to hear his speech rendered into English, almost uninflected, almost North American, with a slight edge of received pronunciation, and she realized it was the TARDIS translating. Somehow, it seemed more strange that the TARDIS was translating German from only a little over a century before her time than it had been translating the language of a tree from five billion years in the future.

“Pretty boy!” whispered Jack teasingly in her ear, nudging her with one shoulder, and she blushed, but put her gloved hand in that of the young officer and let him lead her into the next dance.

Dancing with the stranger, pretty though he might be, was a surprisingly flat experience after the exhilarating whirl with Jack. He was so…young, and a bit awkward, steering her more than finding that balance point between them. Rose smiled a little to herself when she realized that times really hadn’t changed so much, and this was not a lot different from that dance when she was thirteen with Simon Watson, that cute boy who’d turned out to be such a dorky dancer.

She was passed from the young blond officer to a darker, less callow young man whose leading was more relaxed. The circles they traced on the floor stayed firmly on the parquet, and she tried not to let her attention wander too obviously.

Her eyes suddenly found him in the crowd, locking on as if to magnetic north. He was dancing with a petite, curvaceous brunette, a striking woman of obvious grace and maturity in her deep burgundy gown that Rose felt her stomach fall. She saw the flash of a cheekbone, the brush of dark lashes, the curve of a wide mouth as they turned, and despite the brevity of the glimpse, from the way that he looked at her, Rose knew that she was a great beauty. Those steel blue eyes gazed down into dark eyes that weren’t hers, and all she could think was that they looked utterly right together. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, a bit closer than most around, and his surprisingly broad shoulders swept them away into the crowd.

“Your husband?” asked her partner, hazel eyes knowing.

She shook her head sharply, realizing that, even as she tried to relax, she was becoming more tense. Her short, “No,” was more forceful than intended.

“Lover?” The hazel eyes gleamed, reminding her of Jack’s in the pleasure they took at the possibilities.

The familiarity made it easier for her to meet his eyes, smile sweetly, and say, “Yes.”

“He seems occupied for the moment. Would you care to join me for a turn in the Promenade Hall?”

“Ah, that would be very nice,” she replied, lifting her hand from his shoulder to gesture toward the edge of the dancefloor where Jack was sipping a glass of champagne. “But I’m afraid my husband might object.”

“Pity,” sighed the young man and relinquished her as the waltz ended.

She made her way through the applause and appropriated Jack’s glass for a mouthful of champagne. “Have you been dancing?” she asked, and he reached out to tuck back a strand of grown-out fringe that had escaped from her twist.

“A little. You’ve been the belle of the ball.”

“’m not the only one,” she stage-muttered, and he grinned teasingly.

“Tricks for tops.”

“What?” Her confusion drew together her eyebrows as she looked up at him, taking another sip of his champagne

Jack cocked his head thoughtfully, as if running sums in his head. “Uh. Sauce for the goose? Does that make any more sense?”

“Yeah. What does ‘tricks for tops’ mean?”

“Forty-third century slang for the same thing.” He took back the glass to finish off as the orchestra struck up another number. “Hey, ready for another go?”

“That’s not a waltz,” she pointed out, a bit confused.

“Nope, it’s a polka. Come on!” He grabbed her hand and twirled her onto the dance floor. It took her a moment or two to get the hang of the more boisterous dance, but soon they were laughing as they raced across the floor.

***

The Doctor sipped from a bell-shaped glass, something darker than champagne, as mysterious as the look in his shadowed eyes as they arrived, giddy and glowing after the polka. “Are you having a good time?” he asked, seeming so genuinely interested that Rose felt her resentment at his desertion melting away.

“I am.” Her grin stretched her warm cheeks. “How about you? That mysterious Lady X you were waltzing with?”

“Oooh, do tell, yes,” chimed in Jack, but they both ignored him.

“Did you see her?” asked the Doctor, his eyes tightening at the corners.

“Yeah, the lady in red? She was beautiful.”

“You think so?” He almost seemed sad, his eyes searching her features.

“Just saw her for a moment, but yeah.” For some reason, she felt as if she wanted to reassure him as he smiled that soft, faraway, painful little smile he sometimes wore when he thought of the past. He reached out with one hand, and she tilted her face up to him as his forefinger lightly traced across her forehead, pushing that stray strand of hair back behind her ear. The caress of the soft kid sent a shiver over her skin, and as his palm cupped her cheek, she turned her head into it, her eyes drifting closed.

“No one here is more beautiful than you are, Rose.”

His voice was so soft, she wasn’t sure he had actually spoken, but she was afraid to open her eyes to find she had imagined it. It was enough for the moment to believe that he had said it. His thumb slid along her jaw as the tips of his fingers slipped down the side of her throat, and she took an unsteady breath, stopped by the corset.

“You’re quite warm.” Her eyes opened to find him studying her closely, tracing her features. His thumb brushed lightly across her lower lip as if by accident, returning to her cheek, as he lifted his eyes to hers. “Would you like to take a turn in the Promenade?”

“What does ‘take a turn’ mean?” she asked, a nervous giggle melting into flirtatiousness. “You’re the second gentleman who’s asked me that tonight, you know.”

That sudden grin broke over his face. “Just means a walk in the side foyer. Get some air.”

“Sounds lovely.” She slid her hand into the curve of his arm, and Jack fell in on his other side, uncharacteristically subdued.

“I thought we were supposed to be getting fresh air.” Rose fanned her hand before her face as they passed several groups of men puffing on cigars and pipes.

The Doctor chuckled, guiding them through the crowded Promenade. Music was still audible, though muffled by the walls and the chattering of those meandering at a pace that seemed interminably slow to Rose. She glanced across at Jack, who had to stop suddenly when a rather large gentleman in front of him decided to turn and speak to his companion, and they exchanged exasperated looks.

The Doctor dropped his arm, and for a split second, she felt irritated, until he took each of them by the hand and dodged sideways. Like well-taught, but naughty children, they weaved their way through the crowd, never actually jostling or blocking anyone, but gathering speed until they were almost running into the small, half-dark gallery that split off from the Promenade Hall. French doors were open onto the courtyard, letting in decidedly cool air and the music coming from the stage doors propped open for the same reason. A few couples were secreted in alcoves or on benches, but the shadowed gallery was almost deserted.

“Run!” giggled Rose, leaning into the Doctor’s shoulder, and Jack spread his arms, doing a turn along the marble floor.

“Air!” With one of his million-dollar grins, he swept Rose up in another waltz, tracing a large circle across the width of the gallery. They found their balance point immediately, their angular momentum perfectly preserved in frictionless motion across the floor, until Jack let go and Rose spun free into the Doctor’s space, caught up immediately in his orbit as they followed the trajectory Jack had initiated. However smooth the transition, Rose was immediately aware that the focus of their revolution had shifted sharply. The center of gravity was no longer between the two bodies but resided firmly in him. He traced a graceful ellipse, rotating smoothly, noiselessly, and she revolved around him. The music seemed to pick them up and swirl faster even as the harmonies drove downward, as if the floor were dropping away, leaving them suspended…

Until she spun away and came lightly to rest against the velvet of the drapes as Jack assumed her orbit, not a trace of perturbation in the lines. The Doctor held Jack at perfect distance, their matched heights and dress almost blurring their images but for the challenge in the Doctor’s eyes. Jack’s held a trace of yearning under his impudent expression, flaring in surprise as the Doctor stepped in, pivoting expertly on one foot between Jack’s, spinning them to a stop in the shadows beside her.

“Better not.” The Doctor’s voice was soft, his hand gentle on Jack’s arm before he released him, though not stepping back. “Not here.”

“That was some move, Astaire,” breathed Jack, an appreciative smile dawning. “Later?” His eyes were openly hopeful, and the Doctor smiled, squeezing his arm gently.

“Promise.”

A light breeze from courtyard sighed across Rose’s bare shoulders, and a shiver spilled over her heated skin like the moonlight.

Raspberry Ripple

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 23:26:01 GMT

Title: Raspberry Ripple
Author: nina_ds @ ninamusing
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Nine/Rose
Rating: Teen
Spoilers: None. Set sometime after WWIII and before Dalek.
Disclaimer: Insert obligatory witticism here. Not mine. Just playing.
For hearts_in_time prompts: 43 (hands), 56 (raspberry), and 59 (ripple). This is what happens when they almost literally collide, particularly with a conversation that I have been having recently with cathica. And belated thanks to wendymr for beta duties!

***

“Oh, please? Please?”

“How old are you, four?”

Despite the words, there was a smile in his voice; and despite the roll of his eyes, there was a twinkle there. No more stormclouds today.

“You’ve had chips, candy-floss, and a ridiculous wadge of fudge, and now you want ice cream?”

“But the chips weren’t potatoes, the candy-floss was sort of…blue, and the "fudge" tasted more like maple syrup.” She tightened her arm around his and turned big brown eyes on him. She was tempted to bat her eyelashes, but thought it best not to give away the game too obviously, even though he clearly knew she was playing. Like a kitten on one end of a ribbon, tugging just to get the big cat on the other end to play. It could be dangerous, but it could be so much fun when he joined in. “Please?”

He exhaled sharply, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket as he considered, staring intently down at the purple asphalt that paved the midway of the funfair. People — mostly not human, but people at a funfair were pretty much alike the universe and history over — parted around them, very few bothering to give them a second glance. Music from several booths and a couple of the whirling, brightly lit rides blended into an odd rhythm that seemed comfortingly familiar.

His eyes, dark as the twilight sky, slid sideways to her and he humphed, “Don’t come runnin’ to me if you’re sick later.”

Feeling a surge of triumph, seasoned by just a touch of guilt at being so blatantly manipulative, she slid her hand down the inside of his leather sleeve to link her fingers with his deep in his pocket. “I won’t, I promise!” She leaned against his side as he shook his head ruefully but tightened his fingers around hers and trailed after her to the ice cream booth.

The array of colours on display was impressive, but she felt her excitement waning slightly when she failed to find what she was looking for. “No chocolate?” Even she was a bit surprised at the wail in her tone.

The vaguely insectoid bipedal server in a seemingly universal white apron and cap folded three of its forelimbs and bowed as it waved the scoop with a fourth. “Apologies, no, sir.”

“Sir?” Her mouth hung open as the Doctor stepped up and asked politely, “Do you have any Earth flavours?”

“Ma’am, I offer habanera, and vanilla.”

Torn between snickering at the “ma’am” and wrinkling her nose at the habanera ice cream, she nearly choked.

“I’ll have a vanilla cone,” said the Doctor, grinning broadly as he reached into his hip pocket for some change. “And she’ll have…” He turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

Wrinkling her brow thoughtfully, she surveyed the variety of colours before her. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to one that was a vivid, almost iridescent purplish-pink.

The server bowed again and pronounced something that, even with the TARDIS’s translation, she failed to understand. It had an x and a g in it somewhere, though, she was pretty sure.

“It’s a kind of berry,” the Doctor explained. “It’s got a sort of sharp, sweet taste.”

“So…it’s sort of like raspberry?” She curled her fingers around the railing and leaned forward to examine the other flavours.

“Yeah, sort of.” The Doctor handed over some coins and took his rather large vanilla cone. “Why don’t you just get vanilla?”

She looked up at him with the same sympathetic exasperation he’d turned on her earlier. “Vanilla’s boring,” she declared, leaning from the railing and letting one hand swing free.

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. “I love vanilla.” He took a generous lick of the ice cream, and for a moment, she was distracted by the way the tip of his tongue followed the swirl at the top, curling around and teasing it higher

“You would,” she retorted, a little breathlessly, her eyes starting at his close-shorn head, following the black leather jacket and black v-necked jumper all the way down his long, black-denimed legs and stopping at the worn black workboots. Then she grinned and swung back to push up on her toes at the railing as if at a ballet barre. “Okay, I’ll try the raspberry.”

She took her cone with a bit of trepidation, but one tentative touch of her tongue to the cold surface, and a smile broke suddenly across her face. “’S nice. Thank you.” She made a little bow to the server, and then turned to the Doctor and made a more elaborate bow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His smile was warm as he molested his cone with his tongue once more. “You’re still not coming to me complaining that you’ve got an upset tummy later.”

“Yessir.” She snapped him a salute as they walked away from the ice cream booth. Curling her tongue around her own ice cream, she grinned impishly and bumped his shoulder. “Or should I say ma’am?”

“Oi!” he protested, bumping her back, then catching her around the waist as she bounced away.

She hadn’t been anywhere near falling or even stumbling, but she was more than happy to let his arm stay around her as they made their way down the midway, toward the edge of the funfair along the edge of the small cliff overlooking the beach. The sun had set, but there were still streamers of peach and gold along the horizon to the west —well, she supposed “west” by definition was where the sun set, no matter where they were. Lots of planets have a west. She smiled into her ice cream and felt a little disappointed as his hand left her waist; caught her breath for a moment as it slipped across the small of her back, long fingers brushing the back of her jeans; and sighed contentedly as his fingers found their familiar place between hers. A light breeze blew in from the water — a freshwater lake, with a loamy, homey scent of soil and woodland vegetation. Small lamps, like pale fireflies, were strung on posts and through trees, providing gentle illumination as the funfair receded.

Just off the pathway was small, isolated wooden bench in a crescent of trees, overlooking the water, and the Doctor indicated it with a tilt of his head and a lift of an eyebrow. She nodded, happily and not a little gratefully, having been on her feet all day.

“Tired?” he asked as he settled onto the bench, long legs crossed and his torso turned toward her as he looped his elbow behind the backrest.

“A little,” she admitted, curling one leg beneath her so that she could face him. “It’s not exactly running for your life, but it’s been a long day.”

“Did you have a good time?” There was a tightness around his eyes as he asked, and she smiled warmly.

“I did,” she promised him. “Even if you wouldn’t win me one of those soft toys that looked like a raccoon mated with a rhinoceros.”

“A macerek,” he supplied easily, taking a lick around the circumference of his cone. “Told you why.”

“I know.” She felt sorry for bringing it up, remembering the stormclouds gathering in the bright afternoon sunlight. . The little BB guns at the shooting gallery seemed to provoke a disproportionate response. Don’t like guns, he had said, lips pressing together as if he were trying to stop other words from spilling out, and she had slipped her arm through his and guided him away to a ride that reminded her of a combination of bumper cars and teacups, which had been far more fun than lugging around a stuffed animal almost as big as she was all day.

“Like the xhirogax ice cream?” he asked, bringing her back to the present.

“Xhirogax?” she repeated, testing it out on her tongue, and getting a thumbs up in approval. “It’s good. A bit rich.”

“You don’t have to finish if you don’t want it.”

“No, it’s okay, it’s really nice, actually,” she said, taking another swipe around the edge of the cone. “It’s just a little goes a long way.” In the dusky light, she noted the trails of creamy white spilling over his fingers and nodded toward them. “You wanna be careful. Your precious vanilla is slipping away from you there.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully and curled his hand around to lick the dripping ice cream from his fingers.

“You really like vanilla?” she asked doubtfully, noting the pleasurable way his lashes dipped as he made his way back up to the diminishing dip of ice cream at the top of his cone.

“Yeah, it’s lovely,” he said with the sort of eager passion he usually reserved for celestial phenomena and grungy bits of the TARDIS spread out on the kitchen table. “It’s a bit subtle, yeah, but it’s got all these layers, sweet and spicy and a little salty, and the richness doesn’t overpower you at the front like the xhirogax, it gets up in your sinuses and lingers, almost more a scent than a flavour—and no comments about the size of my nose, thank you very much.” He pointed a pre-emptive finger at her, and she was so breathless from his recitation, it took her a moment to slap at his hand playfully.

“Like I would,” she said sincerely, her fingers curling around his forefinger, still a little sticky from the ice cream, and his tongue… “I like your nose.”

“Must be somethin’ in the ice cream,” he muttered, but his eyes seemed to take on the glow of the fairy lights in the dusk.

Torn between pursuing the flirtation and not spoiling the mood, she bowed her head, still holding onto his finger, and took another lick of her cone. Mid-swipe, she discovered a nearly whole xhirogax berry imbedded in the ice cream, and she pointed her tongue to dig it out, sucking it into her mouth to remove all the cream from the roughly-textured surface. The taste of the fruit itself was sharper, intensely sweet but almost hot, and she gasped in surprise, letting go of his hand to catch the small fruit as it spilled from her lips, sliding down her chin.

“All right?” His concern was genuine as he leaned forward in the near darkness.

“Yeah, fine,” she reassured him with a bright smile, holding up the small, half-crushed fruit to look at it. “It’s just really strong.”

“The fresh ones are an acquired taste,” he acknowledged.

“Do you like them?” she asked, offering it to him.

To her amazement, he leaned forward, taking the xhirogax from her fingers with a velvet-soft brush of lips and tongue, seeming almost hot in contrast to the ice cream. She caught her breath, her fingertips trembling against his stubbled cheek as he used the tip of his tongue to catch a drip of syrup that escaped down her thumb toward her palm, and she almost thrust her thumb back into his mouth as he sucked away the last of the juice.

His lashes lifted to fix her with an intense gaze, and she felt the humid heat sweep through her body as she yearned toward him. As he bent toward her, the backs of her fingers curled against his rough cheek, and her lips parted, gasping as the tip of his tongue ran up the side of her chin. She turned toward him, instinctively seeking his mouth, but he was gone…

Sitting back on the bench, as if nothing had happened. Bastard.

She stared at him in disbelief, her heart pounding, and his eyes skittered away, taking stock of his own ice cream. A crack had opened up in the side of his cone above his thumb, and softening ice cream was spilling out over his hand.

Adrenaline, undoubtedly amplified by other hormones, surged through her, and she leaned forward, licking and sucking at his thumb, opening her mouth to take more and more as the cone disintegrated and the cool cream flowed out.

“Hey, hey,” he protested softly, his free hand coming up to push her hair back from her flushed face as she moved closer, rising on her knees. Climbing astride him, she pressed him back against the bench, her hands gripping the back on either side of him, and his purred “hey”, his stroking of her hair became soothing as she finished off the ice cream and cone, licking his hand clean.

“I thought you didn’t like vanilla.” The faint chuckle in his voice was warm, and he wasn’t so alien that she couldn’t tell in her position that he was not immune to the moment. That gave her courage as she realized what she’d done and eased his long thumb out of her mouth, cheeks flaming. Reaching up to rake her hair back from her face with trembling fingers, she ran her tongue around her lips and lifted her head to find his eyes.

“I may have been too hasty in my judgment,” she breathed. A grin broke over her face as his hand, which had been at her shoulder, slid down into the small of her back, urging her closer. “There’s a lot to be said for vanilla.”

“Xhirogax is nice, too. Throws a little tang into the mix.” His fingertips were cool against the bare skin that gapped between her hoodie and jeans, and she giggled when pressing her hips closer to his caused him to catch his breath.

“Like raspberry ripple?” Her heart was pounding, and she refused to think, refused to let herself shrink away from this chance.

“Something like that, yeah.”

Even before he had finished, she had slid her berry-bright tongue into the cold sweetness of his mouth, and she lost herself in the kiss. His hand slid up beneath her hoodie and t-shirt, and she smoothed her clean hand over the silky-soft bristles of his cropped hair, thrilling at the unexpectedly sensual stimulus against her palm.

“Ghghghgghghgm.”

The throat-clearing tore through their kiss, and the Doctor groaned, his forehead falling against her bare throat as she lifted her head, her fingers trembling guiltily against her mouth. The native police officer was tapping her baton against the back of the bench. Although her smoky-blue features were not exactly human, Rose couldn’t fight back a sheepish grin at the expression that clearly read, “Get a room.”

“Sorry.” She fought back a guilty giggle, and the police officer crossed her arms on her chest, waiting patiently as Rose slid back off the Doctor’s long thighs onto slightly unsteady feet. “We’ll be going now.” She didn’t dare look at him, just reached for his hand, knowing it would be there, and they set off back toward the funfair. The police officer swung her baton on its lanyard and headed in the opposite direction.

Nerves jangling, hormones racing, she slanted her gaze up at the Doctor, who was watching her cautiously. Sliding her tongue along her teeth, she grinned, “Race you to the TARDIS.”

His thumb, still a little sticky, brushed across the back of her hand. “I thought we came here because you were tired of running for our lives.”

“I was,” she said, moving closer to him as he stopped, looking down at her. She placed her hand over his hearts. Her fingers were just long enough to touch the smooth skin in the v-neck of his jumper. “But we're usually running from something. This time, we’d be running toward something, yeah?”

“Ah, Rose,” he murmured softly, cupping her face tenderly in one big hand, and she tipped her head back, stretching up for his kiss…

But suddenly, he grinned and grabbed her hand. “Run!”

His Hands (DW 9/R, Teen)

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 20:42:47 GMT

Instead of moving fic wholesale from my personal journal, I've decided to make links to them here, so at least it's fairly consistent/complete, but all the comments are in one place.

"His Hands" is here.

Vampire's Kiss 5/6? (Bennet/Claude, teen)

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 00:34:20 GMT

Title: Vampire’s Kiss, 5/6?
Author: nina_ds@ninamusing
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Bennet/Claude, traces of Bennet/Sandra, Claude/Peter, Claude/various OCs
Rating: Teen
Challenge: written for brave_new_slash’s Morally Grey November.
Author’s notes: Thanks again to indyhat for a detailed and encouraging beta.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

***

“Why aren't you dead?”

Claude stares intently at him for a moment, then laughs. It's still a bit weak and hoarse, but a reasonable facsimile of his normal raucous, full-bodied laugh. “Y'know, I'd forgotten just how adept you aren't at diplomacy.” As the laughter fades, bitterness curls through like smoke, darkening his eyes. His voice softens, takes on a rich edge that skims over Bennet's skin like silk, raising every tiny hair on his body to alert status. “I don't know why, but time is short enough, and I'll be damned if I let any bugger take what's left of mine. I've survived worse than you, Noah Bennet. And I've survived better.”

***

Sixteen years before…

Bennet was aware that the file he had been given was incomplete. The redaction was far more subtle than swathes of black Marks-a-Lot across the pages, but it gave him enough to get a glimpse of the man with whom he was going to have to share an office and a car and a working life.

Photograph of a surprisingly photogenic invisible man.

Claude Rains. Clearly not his real name.

Born Salford, England. No kidding.

Height, weight, hair colour, eyes…

Distinguishing marks: mole on right cheek, appendectomy scar, thin crescent-shaped scar on inside of right ankle. (Later, he would wonder if the blatant omissions were tactical, strategic, or simply a product of the Company's fascination with firewalls.)

Employed by the Company for twelve years. That meant he had been thirteen or fourteen when first employed. Illegal, of course; but interesting.

Part of a Company-run youth program for two years and three months before that. The existence of a youth outreach program was new information. He'd have to find out more about that. (And he would, in horrifying detail.)

Previous partners: Haram el-Adjani, for four years up until seven months ago; before that, a brief ten months with an Anna Gavenda, and then a notation of nine weeks “administrative assignment.” Before that, an annual pattern of ten months partnered with a “KT” and six weeks' “administrative assignment”, going back to his first two and a half years, without any specifics as to his duties.

An assortment of commendations sprinkled with the occasional reprimand (most of them for insubordination - now there's a surprise).

And a sheaf of field report summaries, in short, declarative sentences, the more recent ones laced with Claude's mordant wit. He'd have to take over reporting duties. (Little did he know, he'd have to anyway, as Claude only did paperwork when absolutely forced. It wasn't that he couldn't do it efficiently and even with a certain flair, he just found it a challenge to find ways to avoid it.)

Bennet was impressed that so much information should impart so little knowledge.

***

Fifteen years before…
Bennet lay in bed, pretending to read a file, when the door opened. He expected Claude to be smug, or contrite, or something, but he was simply matter-of-fact, like always, a bit of a smile as he tossed his keys on the nightstand. He sat on the side of the bed to take off his shoes and socks, and only when wiggling his freed toes did he ask, “Are you going to freak out on me?”

Bennet returned his eyes sharply to his reading. “I don't know what you mean,” he said, sounding unbearably prim even to his own ears, and Claude's chuckle did little to improve his mood.

“You seemed - were you honestly surprised?”

Bennet pursed his lips thoughtfully. In the hour or so since he got back from the restaurant, he'd realized how blinkered he had been. Claude's flirtation had always been equal opportunity, and yet his flirtation was always also genuine interest. It was hard to tell where his focus crossed the line into sexuality. The intensity was sometimes overwhelming.

“I can't believe you'd be so careless - you could have been caught by someone else a lot less open-minded.”

“I knew you and I were the only customers left in the dining room.” Claude was calm as he stood up, unbuttoning his shirt. “And Ramiro seemed to think it was safe enough with the rest of the crew.”

“That's not all there is to being careful.”

Claude looked at Bennet intently, a gleeful glint in his eyes as he worried at his cuff button. “Do you want to know if I'm having safe sex? Or is that you want to know what we did?”

Bennet felt his face flush. “Of course not.”

“It's natural curiosity,” said Claude, finally freeing his cuff and starting on the other. “If you've never been in a position to ask before. And don't-” Claude held up one rather beautiful hand to forestall his protest. “Don't get all defensive. If it makes you feel any better, yes, we used a condom. But no, we didn't fuck. Not in the way you think.”

“I don't need to know this,” protested Bennet, looking back at his file.

“No. You don't.” His partner watched him for a long moment, then turned and went into the bathroom.

The shower seemed to go on forever, and Bennet was glad of the opportunity to calm his nerves. He wasn't sure why he was so rattled by Claude's forthrightness - it was as much a part of the man as his big beak and his sarcasm. He wasn't sure, either, why knowing that Claude and the waiter hadn't “fucked in the way that he thought” unsettled him more than knowing that they had.

When Claude finally emerged from the bathroom, his hair was slicked back, as usual, but a thin, white motel towel was wrapped around his waist, a concession to modesty he had never offered before.

His gaze at Bennet was thoughtful, careful as he came to sit on the side of his bed, opposite his partner. An undertone of defiance ran beneath the odd tranquility of his voice. “I thought you knew.”

The Englishman's honesty disarmed him enough to speak without dissembling. “I may have chosen unconsciously to filter that part of your behaviour.”

Claude lifted an eyebrow, visibly suppressing the quirk of his lips, and he took a moment to unfasten his wristwatch, checking the time before setting it aside on the nightstand. “I don't think Thompson will allow a transfer,” he said, almost lightly as he turned his intense focus back to Bennet. “And I'm not going to stand for any homophobic crap.”

“No, I'm not-” Bennet felt a vague sense of panic that Claude would think that of him. “It just didn't occur to me. I'm fine with it, I'm just…”

“Curious?”

Bennet felt the flush climb his face all the way up to his hairline, warming his ears.

Claude smiled, a little teasingly, and he stretched out on the bed with a tired groan. “That I can handle.” He stretched, the towel staying demurely in place as he folded his hands behind his head. “Ask me any question you like.”

“I don't need to ask any questions.” Bennet made a conscious effort to sound unflustered, and Claude grinned at him, that sharkish grin that made him nervous at the best of times.

“Yeah, but you want to.” He hitched over onto his side, propping his head on his hand, his leg curling underneath him.

Giving up any pretence of reading the file, Bennet heaved a sigh and shut the folder. “So. You're gay.”

Claude looked a little surprised. “Nope. Bisexual. Like 'em both.”

“I didn't think that was - y'know…”

Claude sighed. “I know. I get that from both sides.”

“Thought you might like that sort of thing,” muttered Bennet before he thought, and Claude burst out laughing, a deep, genuine laugh.

“Oh, God.” He lay on his back, shaking his head. “Didn't think you had it in you.”

The tension broken, Bennet couldn't help grinning in response.

Then Claude turned his face to him again, eyes twinkling unusually blue in the lamplight. “But I wouldn't turn it down.”

The heat that suddenly bloomed low in his belly shocked Bennet, and he shifted his gaze back to the file, although the afterimage of Claude's smile hovered between him and the page. He could barely breathe, and he was highly aware that Claude's gaze was still on him.

He blinked, if not banishing the Cheshire cat image then at least making it more transparent. Not that he could concentrate on anything but the long, lean body stretched out on the bed opposite him.

His breath fluttered in his throat, and he froze as Claude sat up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed. The flimsy motel towel dropped to the floor, the covers of the bed were flung back, and Bennet felt as though the motion of fabric had stirred up some heady scent that hovered between intoxicating and sickening. Claude was bending toward him, and he murmured softly, “Goodnight, rookie,” before switching off the lamp over his bed and slipping between the sheets.

Bennet took a deep breath, but it felt raw in his throat. His eyes flickered over the edge of the manila folder. The light from the lamp over his bed fell weakly across a bare shoulder, a sharp cheekbone. A wiry arm curved across the rise and fall of the sturdy ribcage, a thin sliver of scar running underneath from armpit to elbow the only visible trace in the sickly yellow light.

Bennet lay back, taking another deep breath, holding the folder up more directly into the weak beam. Gnawing at the inside of his lower lip, he forced himself to concentrate on the job and not the vague miasma of relief and disappointment churning his gut.

***

Ten months before…

The indistinct colours swirled, separated, circled each other, and merged. The dance was beautiful, and it sat like a hot stone on his stomach. As his eyes adjusted, his heart twisted in recognition at the angle of the taller figure bending toward the shorter one. The red at the center of the smaller swirl suddely deepened, stretching toward the ill-defined edges, and taller hesitated a moment before they merged once more.

His finger twitched on the trigger, the memories ricocheting along his nervous system, and he imagined he could feel the impact through the wires. His arms suddenly felt like lead, and taser and infrared goggles fell heavily to his sides as the electrodes clattered to the roof.

The tall, shaggy figure in the big overcoat was almost unrecognizeable, but the short exhalations of agony echoed across the years. As he stumbled to his knees, the young man stood protectively in front of him, one arm curved over his huddled back with a gesture of such tenderness that Bennet lost a step in response.

A step that allowed the Petrelli kid to get Claude to his feet and roll him over the side of the building. City night flickered with overcast grey as Bennet rushed to the retaining wall, and he saw only the glow of streetlamps, weakly illuminating the dry riverbed of the dirty alleyway. Suddenly, Petrelli was shooting past him, soaring toward the full moon with Claude slung across his shoulders, the invisible man's ridiculously long legs threatening to overbalance him and mar the romance of his perfect getaway.

***

“Why couldn't you just let me die?”

The steely eyes cut right through him.

“You couldn't even give me that?”

Bennet's hands tighten on the railing as he gazes at his former partner, his scarred body naked and weak, but the intervening years have only increased the power behind that fierce gaze.

The mouth that could snark or cajole or draw shrieks of pleasure from him in ways he had never even imagined twists into a rueful smile. “No, of course not.” The brightening of the grey eyes startles him. “Ol' Ken must be so proud. You really are the Company Man he always wanted.”

He takes a quick breath, his heart settling back into its rhythm. “Thompson's dead.” He is gratified by the relief that softens the sharp features. But then, doubt creeps in, and he reaches out to grip the thin forearm, careful of the bruising from the IVs. “I killed him.”

Claude sinks back into the pillows, his eyes closing. His lashes are suspiciously wet, and Bennet allows himself a small caress with his thumb.

“He's gone.”

“Yeah, but the Company still goes on.” Claude twitches the sheet across his waist, and his palm comes to rest over the ugly scars on his belly. “It's not going to be as easy to open me up anymore. Been a while, and then there's all the new body work.” He takes a deep breath and his eyes are clear blue, almost sympathetic when they turn to him. “Have they gotten to Claire yet?”

He shakes his head firmly, his throat thick as he forces out, “No.”

“Look, Noah-” The name startles him, more than the hand that comes up to grasp his own forearm, pulling him down. “I'll be your bargaining chip. Just - get Claire away from them. As far away as you can get her.”

“Claude.” He slides his hand down to curl his hand around the man's in a firm clasp. “I'm not turning you in.”

Doubt clouds the blue gaze.

“I'm working against the Company now, too.”

“Riiiight.” The wariness is back, beneath the tiredness. “That explains why you shot me. Three times.”

“Third time's the charm, right?” Bennet dares reach up and brush his curled fingers against the hollow temple, ignoring the flinch away. He lays his palm against the sharp cheekbone, resting his thumb against the parted lips, stilling the protest. He is leaning down before he realizes it, whispering, “This time, I did it to save you.”

Relict, 3/? (DW, 9/J/R, Teen)

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 07:00:05 GMT

Jack saw the dilation of the steel-blue eyes and felt a little surge of triumph at this sign of arousal — nice to know he wasn’t alone in that — but within a fraction of a moment, he realized that the irises had lost control, the muscles in fine spasm like those in the taut body bridging his. Swiftly, Jack slipped his hands free, ready to catch the Doctor as his elbows collapsed. Bodies collided awkwardly, and Jack rolled to the side to cradle him, but the Doctor was stiff-arming him like a cat that doesn’t want to be held.

“Doctor!” cried Rose, and Jack felt her poised right beside him as the Doctor rolled away from him, his body trembling as he struggled to get to his hands and knees. Unsuccessfully. He fell back hard onto his hip, knees pulling inward as his hands slid out from under him, and his elbows and jaw hit the grating before his chest. The twisted position was awkward, and Rose’s voice became a shriek as she called his name again, racing around to fall on her knees on his other side.

“What’s happening?” Rose’s panic was rising, but Jack was trying to marshal his tripping heart and run down his first aid checklist.

“Don’t touch him,” he warned, leaning over to look into the staring eyes with their blown pupils.

Then, suddenly, the Doctor blinked and the shaking body stilled. Jack’s hands, and Rose’s, hovered over him, and both held their breath, waiting for any response.

“Doctor!” Jack’s voice was hoarse and sharp, and the eyes blinked again, then closed as the still body went limp. Jack’s hands were immediately on the thin shoulders, and Rose slid her hand between his cheek and the grating as Jack turned the Doctor over carefully.

A low moan broke from his throat, the lashes fluttering for a moment before opening as Jack succeeded in getting him on his back, cradled in his arm. The steel-blue irises tightened around the contracting pupils, visibly focusing, and Jack grinned, relieved.

“Hi, there.”

Another blink, a swallow, and suddenly, the Doctor was rolling easily to his feet, as light and springy as ever, tugging down the T-shirt that had twisted up around his ribs. Rose was immediately on her feet, reaching up to touch his face with tentative fingertips. “Are you all right?” she asked, jerking her hand back when he flinched at her fingers along his jaw.

“Yeah, fine,” he said, shrugging it off, but at Rose’s look of hurt concern, his entire body softened toward her, and he put his hand on her shoulder, rubbing gently as his voice deepened reassuringly. “I’m fine, Rose.”

“You didn’t look fine just a minute ago,” she protested softly, her hand coming to rest on his waist. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb gently caressing her flushed, tear-streaked cheek.

“I’m fine, Rose,” he repeated, his voice resonating warmly through the console room, and Rose’s small body melted into his as he slid one arm around her, holding her close to his side. She closed her eyes, winding her arms tightly around his waist as she buried her face in his shoulder, and the Doctor reached out his free hand to Jack, one eyebrow arched questioningly.

“Y’know, I had fantasies of you falling into my arms.” Jack grinned as he let himself be pulled up to his feet, although he was certain his worry still showed in his eyes. “But this really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“I’ll bet,” drawled the Doctor dryly, but the lingering caress of his fingers along the sides of Jack’s as he released his hand produced a last-minute flutter to Jack’s pulse that wasn’t just adrenaline.

He turned his curiosity to a cover. “What was that?”

“Dunno,” said the Doctor, his fingers lightly stroking Rose’s tousled hair. He looked down into her eyes so lovingly as her head tilted back into his hand that Jack was torn between turning away and giving them privacy, and using this opportunity to reach out and push them together in that kiss that was always hovering just on the edge of every look they exchanged.

“Don’t you think we ought to find out?” asked Rose, and the Doctor’s sudden smile broke over his face.

“Yeah, probably,” he agreed, patting her waist, and her hand smoothed over his chest, a caress through the thin cotton T-shirt that was also clearly meant to check his hearts. She rested her head against his shoulder once more, exchanging a worried look with Jack.

“Medlab,” Jack declared, stepping forward, but the Doctor shook his head.

“Nah. Well, I’ll go. You two should get lunch, yeah?” His tone was offhand, but Jack could feel the intractability underneath.

“What about you?” asked Rose, wiping a straggling tear from her cheek. “Shouldn’t you eat?”

“Shouldn’t one of us go with you?” Jack was not easily put off.

“Yeah, take the readings and such?” The shock was beginning to wear off, and Rose’s persistence was rising again.

“Nah, ’s a bit boring.” The more casual the tone, the more steel in the eyes, noted Jack. “The TARDIS can run a full physical in about fifteen minutes. Not much to do but just lie there.”

“We could keep you company.” Rose wasn’t letting him go easily, either.

“Doesn’t work that way, Rose.” His eyes softened as he looked down at her, hand gently rubbing her back. “I have to lie still and quiet. Might even drift off to sleep.”

“Might even have another seizure,” Jack pointed out firmly.

“Then the medlab’s the best place for me, isn’t it?” The smile was bright and sharp as a razor.

Rose reluctantly let him go, and Jack folded his arms as they watched him down the corridor.

“Great ass,” he declared. “Thick skull.”

Rose’s giggle caught on a little sob. “Yeah.”

***

Jack stirred his iced tea thoughtfully with a straw. “So, I’ve been on board for about a week, and I don’t think I’ve seen him eat a meal.”

Rose tucked her hair behind her ear as she rested her cheek on her hand. She had been pushing her salad from one side of the plate to the other since she’d sat down. “No, he doesn’t eat much. He’ll eat if we’re out somewhere, or he’ll steal my chips—” She smiled suddenly, blushing a little, and Jack could practically see the memory replaying in her head.

“That explains the svelte silhouette.” Jack took a sip of his tea. “Given the frequency at which he vibrates, you’d think he’d have the metabolism of a hummingbird. Which would need far more fuel than he seems to take in. And he doesn’t sleep.”

Rose was suddenly very interested in the bits of carrot in her salad.

“Rooooose,” prompted Jack, grinning as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Does he sleep?”

Her ears were turning an eponymous shade of pink, and she made a vague gesture with her fingers before returning her cheek to her hand, spearing a bit of red onion before dropping it on the edge of her plate. “Sometimes. Not a lot.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Do you think it’s as simple as him just not eating or sleeping properly?”

Rose managed to look both hopeful and doubtful at once, and Jack was charmed, but he couldn’t lie. “No.”

“It was just a few seconds,” she ventured tentatively. “Maybe it was just a one-off thing.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, and she poked almost angrily at a bit of lettuce.

“Okay, then, got any tea brewed?”

The Doctor’s voice was downright chirrupy as he breezed into the galley, looking refreshed and energetic in clean black slacks and a cobalt-blue jumper under the customary black leather jacket. The clear blue eyes noted the contents of Jack’s glass, and Jack grinned as he ostentatiously enjoyed a long pull on the straw.

The Doctor shook his head and rolled his eyes, reaching into the pantry for the tin of Darjeeling.

“What did the tests say?” Rose ignored their byplay and spoke the unspoken.

“Nothing much,” he responded easily, spooning tea leaves into the pot. “Prob’ly just a slight chemical imbalance.” He turned on the kettle and grinned as he snagged a banana from the fruitbowl and waggled it at them.

Rose didn’t look particularly convinced, and Jack certainly wasn’t, though he appreciated the view as the Doctor rested his hips against the counter and crossing his long legs in front of him. “Look, everything’s in the normal range,” he said, peeling the banana. “Nothing to be worried about.”

“Could it have been something about the vortex?” asked Rose.

The Doctor stopped in mid-bite, almost imperceptibly. He chewed and swallowed thoughtfully. “Could be. Probably not, though. Anything that could get past the TARDIS’s shielding, and I’d have seized for longer than a couple of seconds.”

“Felt long enough for me,” sighed Rose, and the Doctor smiled gently.

“So. What would you like to do this evening? Woodstock? Fireworks on Llaylior? The casinos of New New Monte Carlo?”

“How about dinner and a movie?”

Brown eyes and blue swung to him in surprise, and Jack got up to take his plate to the dishwasher.

“You tryin’ to coddle me, Captain?” The dangerous edge was back in the rich voice, and the twinkle in the gunmetal eyes was anything but jolly.

“Maybe a little,” conceded Jack, stowing his dishes. “But we’ve been out seeing the sights for the past week, and I say, why not take a little downtime?”

The twinkle became a glitter. “How ’bout dinner and dancing?”

***

Rose smoothed down the bronze silk with a trembling hand as she tried to take a deep breath. The corset made it a bit of a challenge, but the reflection in the mirror made her forget any discomfort. She had thought the dress she had worn to Victorian Cardiff was beautiful. This was something else again. The cut was simple, a bodice that smoothed over her hips to a gored skirt that fell straight in front but swept around to a soft gather behind and fell in a rounded train. Her shoulders and arms were bare, although a drape of lace and fringe made of tiny champagne-coloured crystal beads served as a semblance of sleeves and a decoration of the rather low-cut, straight neckline. The gloves reached almost to the fringe on her upper arms, and topaz dangled from her ears among the soft tendrils of blonde hair, artfully escaping from a simple but elegant hairstyle her hands suddenly seemed to know how to make.

“Am I ready for a ball, or what?” Jack’s boisterous entry broke her reverie, and he held his arms out to make a full turn. With a flourish, he put his white-gloved hands on his hips to sweep back the tailed evening coat and display his black watered silk waistcoat, pearl shirt studs, and white tie over a high, stiff collar.

Rose giggled at the juxtaposition of his casual attitude and the elegant clothes, but she suddenly hiccuped and caught her breath, her hand automatically went to the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. “Oops, this dress makes it a little hard to laugh.” Her breath hitched again. “Or breathe.”

“Ah, but it’s worth it,” purred Jack, reaching out to take her hands in his, spreading them so that he could get the full effect of the dress.

“It’s probably just as well I can’t take a deep breath, I think I’d pop right out of this.”

“That would definitely be worth it,” teased Jack with a broad grin, guiding her into a turn with one hand over her head, and they both stopped as the Doctor appeared at the door of the wardrobe, white gloves in one long hand.

Rose suddenly found that breathing was no longer difficult, but impossible. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears as her fingers slipped free of Jack’s and their arms fell to their sides.

She’d just never expected him to change out of the jumper and jacket. Certainly not into full turn-of-the-twentieth-century evening wear, complete with white tie, white waistcoat, and tails.

No, that was untrue. It wasn’t just that. While Jack might be able to pull off just about any style with his classic features, she wouldn’t have bet on her rough-edged, Northern-accented, big-eared Doctor not looking like a little boy being forced to dress up for a wedding. Instead…

“Wow, Doc—”

A lifted eyebrow.

“—tor,” breathed Jack, almost without a hitch. “You look…”

“Beautiful,” finished Rose automatically. And suddenly, her mouth ran away with her, grinning as it added, “For an alien.”

Thanks to wmr for a thorough and quick beta!

Vampire's Kiss 4/6? (Bennet/Claude, teen)

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 15:53:25 GMT

Title: Vampire’s Kiss, 4/6?
Author: nina_ds@ninamusing
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Bennet/Claude, traces of Bennet/Sandra, Claude/Peter, Claude/various OCs, even a wee hint of possible-maybe Sandra/Claude; also Claire and, as requested, Mr. Muggles in a cameo
Rating: Teen
Challenge: written for brave_new_slash’s Morally Grey November.
Author’s notes: Thanks again to indyhat for a wonderfully picky beta.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

***

Claire smoothes down the edges of the adhesive tape with a satisfied smile. “There. Feel better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Claude’s voice is still rough and a little weak, but he smiles, his expression changing from mere warmth to something deeper, sadder as the tip of his tongue worries the split in his lower lip. “You’ve grown up, Claire.”

“Almost,” she agrees, tucking the tape and gauze away in the drawer. “Is there something else we can do to make you more comfortable?”

For the first time in hours, his eyes leave Claire and turn to her father, across the room. He’s sitting at his desk, work open before him, although he’s not made much progress in the three days since he and Parkman managed to get his wounded quarry back here and help Suresh set up the makeshift hospital room in the corner. After that initial bit of bother, they had gone back to New York City to look after Molly, and for Mohinder to continue his lab-work. Bennet reported by coded text messages and e-mail, but so far the recovery had gone as expected. Except for Claire.

He closes the file and gets to his feet, sliding his hands into his pockets as he crosses the room, hoping to project an air of controlled nonchalance. “You could have some tea, or some soup if you’re hungry,” he offers, and Claude takes a deep breath, as if testing that he can, his shoulders moving awkwardly on the pillow.

“No, thanks, not yet.”

“Do you want to sit up more?” asks Claire.

“Actually, I have an itch. Middle o’ my back, ’course.” He lifts his hands slightly to demonstrate their uselessness, as he still has IVs going in both arms and the back of one hand.

Claire grins and wiggles her fingers before his eyes. “I’ve got fingernails. Want a hand?”

“Yes, please,” he groans pleasurably, and Bennet makes his way unobtrusively around the bed, squeezing between it and the wall. Without a word, he and Claire each take an upper arm (the limb is so thin, he could almost get his hand entirely around the bicep, although he can still feel the strength in wiry muscles), and they help Claude sit up from the raised head of the bed. Claire puts her hand in the middle of his back, over the wilted white cotton of the hospital pajamas.

“Where is it?” she asks, and he directs,

“Up a bit. To the left — ah, that’s it! Little harder.”

Claire grins at his relieved sigh, scratching firmly and lightly through the cotton. “If you were Mr. Muggles, you’d be thumping your hind leg right now.”

“In spirit, believe me, I am,” he groans. “Lovely. That’s better.”

Claire smooths her hand across his back. “Dad, do you have another top? He’ll feel better with a clean one.”

Bennet weighs the decision for a moment, looking down into his old partner’s eyes. He hasn’t been this close to him — while Claude was conscious, anyway — in a long time. He had almost forgotten the little splash of amber in the outer edge of the left iris. But not that look of challenge.

“Sure.” Bennet’s tone is casual, but he catches the surprise in the blue-grey eyes. “Help me get this one off him.” He shuts the valve on the IV next to him and snaps the connection, leaving the needle and shunt in place, and Claire copies his action with the two on her side. Then father and daughter work as a team, guiding the pajama top up over arms that Claude is able, with some trembling, to raise himself.

Claire tosses the garment to the floor, more intent on helping her father ease the patient back down against the pillows. Bennet watches his daughter carefully. Gauging her reaction.

A soft, indrawn breath is the first intimation, and Claude’s soft expression flickers between sorrow and sympathy. Claire’s eyes meet his.

She knows that scar. She’s awoken with one just like it.

***

Fourteen years before…

“What do you tell them?” His fingertips ghosted over the smooth skin, amazed that it should feel so silky. The residue of endorphins had left him dozy and unguarded.

“Who?” The soft voice was rich and vibrated through his body, a subtle pleasure that still startled him.

“The — ones you go with.”

Any sting in the chuckle was soothed by the long fingers carding lazily through his hair. “That’s so — old-fashioned of you, there, rookie.”

“Well, if you’re going to be—”

“Oh, shut up and lie back down.” The gruff words were matched by the long fingers twining in his hair and giving a playful little shake. The gusty sigh welcomed him back into warm arms, and his fingertips traced the neat silvery-pink thread along the prominent breastbone, over the crest of the ribs and the small indention of the navel, still perfect in its nexus of geometric lines, and down the silky trail of fawn-coloured hair.

“Heart transplant,” Claude murmured against his temple. “I tell ’em I was a donor.”

***

Claire’s eyes trace the thin, precise lines that make abstract art of his torso. The Y-incision is thicker than the other lines, perhaps an eighth of an inch wide and slightly raised from his fair skin, the faded pinkish silver of old scars. But they are all incredibly neat, a set of finer, almost invisible pink-white lines radiating out from his navel, curving around his sides up beneath his armpits, around his waist, down toward the hipbones beneath the blanket, almost as if he were an orange sectioned for peeling. Similar lines run down the insides of his upper arms and along his sides.

Marring the geometric precision of the pattern are three large splashes of scar tissue. One, fairly contained and round, on his left upper chest — terrifyingly located between heart and nipple, almost no margin for error — and two more lower down, spreading to overlap in an arc from a couple of inches below his ribs to a couple of inches below his navel. The scar tissue is thick, twisted, ugly.

“Who did this to you?” Her whisper is husky with horror and his eyes flicker to Bennet, who meets his eyes for a moment, then flickers away, turning to get a clean set of pajamas from the box on the floor.

Claude clears his throat. “The Company.”

***

Eight years before…

Some memories are sharp, intense, forever in the present tense.

The first shot surprises him, as if someone had pulled the trigger for him. Claude’s body reels backward from the impact, but what he will always remember is the look of betrayal and…disappointment…in the eyes the colour of the overcast sky. The second and third shots come with the rush of adrenaline, the need to stop the look in those transparent eyes.

Claude struggles to keep standing, long legs scrabbling for purchase as he collapses in the gap between inner and outer railings. Bright red is the only splash of colour in the heavy light, and Bennet starts to reach out as Claude flickers in and out of visibility. Just as Bennet steps forward, the man who had foolishly trusted him finally gets a boot onto the inner railing, pitches backward, and winks out of his sight.

He rushes to the side of the bridge, hands held out, searching, but they find only metal, and he looks down to the rocky riverbed so far below. His heart pounds in his throat, and he wonders whether the body will revert to its natural state upon death. Or whether invisibility is its natural state.

He throws up — just the bitter acid of coffee — as he walks back to the car. Only behind the steering wheel does he notice that he literally has blood on his hands.

***

Seven years before that…

He’s standing, dumbfounded, with his hand in his pocket, frozen in his search for change. He was going to call Sandra, tell her he would be home tomorrow. They’d be able to go look at houses over the weekend, as they’d planned before this road trip came up. He just came to the back corridor of the all-night coffee shop to use the pay phone.

He wasn’t expecting to find his partner, fully visible, pressed up against the wall between the phone and the men’s room by the powerful body of a man in the dark slacks and white shirt of a waiter. The stocky man is a little shorter than Claude, but much sturdier, and for a moment Bennet’s instinct is to step in to protect his partner. He notices that the waiter’s strong fingers are shoved fiercely through the wheat-blond hair, holding his head tightly. Then he notices that Claude’s extraordinarily long fingers are splayed on the white cotton shirt — the fabric is thin enough that the warm golden-brown skin glows through — and he is holding on, pulling closer, not pushing away.

Claude’s bony, beaky face looks almost soft, his eyes closed, his mouth opening receptively to an insistent tongue. He seems peaceful, somehow reverent, giving himself over entirely to this moment. His long, jeans-clad thigh rises against the shorter man’s hip, and it’s a motion of submission, of hunger, of welcoming all in one as the man grabs his ass with his free hand, dropping his head to attack the long throat.

The sandy lashes lift and dove-grey eyes find his, almost glowing in the dim light. Claude’s expression seems unreadable at first, and then Bennet realizes it is because he expects Claude to be challenging, or embarrassed, or amused, but not to smile softly, almost sweetly, one eyebrow cocked not in sarcasm but as if he expects a response.

Bennet is frozen. He hasn’t got a compartment for this, certainly not as Claude lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed, exposing his throat to the man’s hot mouth, his lean body moving gracefully against the other’s with intent. The sturdy man flexes his hips against the narrow ones, and Claude’s low groan is so purely sexual that Bennet’s body responds instinctively.

He flees.

***

Some of the scars on the long, lean body are new to him. He had been more concerned about the irregular heartbeat and suppressed respiration before, when he and Suresh had stripped Claude of the layers of dirty clothes that Bennet had later burned in the barrel out back, with the newspapers and lawn trash. And then later, Parkman had helped Mohinder bathe their patient and get him into the pajamas as Bennet had worked out the logistics of getting the right medication and equipment. They had planned on an unconscious target, not one on the verge of cardiac and pulmonary arrest — an unfortunate and entirely unanticipated side-effect of the tranquilizer.

Claire had been subdued as she helped her father give Claude a discreet sponge bath above the waist, and she left them alone to finish the job, though not before pressing a soft kiss to Claude’s hollow temple. His voice had grown in strength and depth, as well as warmth, when he had bid her “Goodnight, sweetheart,” and she had smiled back at him as she left, closing the basement door carefully behind her.

Bennet assesses the unfamiliar scars. The ragged rip on the left shoulderblade is adorned with a large patch of tiny cross-hatching scars that look like the knee Lyle skinned on the gravel driveway. Bennet imagines that this little constellation is a souvenir of the fall from the bridge, but he’s not about to ask. The long, thin old scars that run up both the outsides and the insides of his thighs — his fingertips know that route — are now complemented by what looks like a stab wound on his right thigh. Like the gunshot wounds, there is ample evidence of infection in the angriness of the scar.

“Like the new decorations?” asked Claude, as Bennet lingers over the scar with the washcloth. The invisible man seems no more concerned about his nakedness than he ever was, and Bennet feels surprisingly comfortable with that familiarity. He curves his hand along the inside of the thin thigh, his thumb tracing the arc of the stab wound, with just enough pressure to feel the knots and fibers of the scar. Soft hair and hot, velvet skin brush the back of his hand, and his thumb moves up to trace the hairline scar that mars the surprisingly delicate, vein-laced skin stretched taut between belly and thigh.

Claude raises himself onto one elbow with some difficulty, and Bennet waits as long as he can before looking up into the transparent eyes and asking the question that still haunts him.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

Vampire's Kiss 3/6? (Bennet/Claude, teen)

Sun, 30 Dec 2007 15:11:20 GMT

Title: Vampire’s Kiss
Author: nina_ds@ninamusing
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Bennet/Claude, traces of Bennet/Sandra, Claude/Peter, Claude/various OCs, even a wee hint of possible-maybe Sandra/Claude; also Claire and, as requested, Mr. Muggles in a cameo
Rating: Teen
Challenge: written for brave_new_slash’s Morally Grey November.
Author’s notes: Sincere thanks to Indyhat for a fantastic beta, hacking through the verb tenses in this one.

Part One

Part Two

***

Bennet sits at his desk, nerves still jangling as he watches Claire sitting on the edge of the bed across the basement. She holds Claude’s hand carefully in her lap as he sleeps.

Her fury is spent, their argument having been hissed in virulent whispers in the far corner of the room. His usual equilibrium had been lost because he knew, better than she did, how right she was to accuse him of being arbitrary, unfair, and even mean. The jealousy he had long kept buried kept seeping back as he parried his daughter’s accusations.

“It was to keep him safe.”

Even when he had spoken the truth, Claire had not believed him. “Give him some of my blood, then.”

“That’s not what he needs,” he had said, and she had pushed at him with both hands as he tried to get closer.

“You never know what anybody needs,” she had retorted, and returned to her vigil.

She wasn’t wrong.

***

Fifteen years before…

That kicker bar in Abilene was six kinds of hell, as far as Bennet was concerned. Not least because repeated visits had yet to yield concrete results, but the smoke, the smell, the cheap beer, the uncomfortable chairs, and the atrocious band all contributed to its specific lack of charm.

As Claude tucked folded bills under the beer bottle, Bennet saw amusement flicker through the grey eyes. But there was also perhaps a bit of sadness as Claude turned to leave with the curvaceous redhead plastered against him.

The two of them had danced a couple of times, and Bennet had sat at the table, watching. Because that’s what he did. Surveillance. Observation.

She was a good ten years older than Claude, and the red hair came out of a bottle, that much even he could figure out. But there was a kind of innocence in her open face, rather pretty under the heavy make-up, a slightly pathetic gratitude and wonder at the attention from the gangly but charismatic foreigner.

Claude was actually not bad at the two-step and seemed to enjoy it. He was wearing faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a white, pearl-snapped Western shirt, and he didn’t look like an idiot. How does he do that, Bennet wondered. He himself had been born and raised in Midland and still looked like a “complete prat” —Claude’s succinct opinion — in that sort of get-up. But with his swimmer’s build, the style worked on Claude. The shirt fit perfectly across broad shoulders, the snug jeans and heeled boots accentuated the length of his legs and that runner’s ass—

Bennet took a swig of beer, half-glaring at Claude’s back as they headed out the door. Much later, in the motel room, he waited until he heard the key in the lock before turning over to go to sleep, studiously ignoring the quiet sounds of his partner undressing and sliding into the double bed on the other side of the room, not five feet away.

It had been the first time, but was certainly not the last. Bennet was not deluded enough to think he had the guy entirely figured out, but for a dirty blond with a big nose, big ears, and a big mouth, Claude had a way with people. And people included the ladies. There was a flirtation with a pretty blonde waitress at the pancake house on I-40, a tender empathy for the shy, bookish graduate student with the ability to absorb languages like a sponge, and more than one date with Cheryl from Primatech’s accounts receivable. Bennet had been unable to discern a physical type or even an age range as long as it was legal, and Claude flirted across ethnicity and race lines, sometimes in contexts where it was less than wise. He did, however, seem to gravitate toward a kind of sweetness which seemed at odds with his smartass attitude toward Bennet, and toward the occasional recalcitrant target.

To Bennet’s amazement, Sandra seemed to like Claude, too. Which, frankly, Bennet found irritating. He liked to keep work and home neatly compartmentalized, but one fateful flat car battery in the bitter February cold, and his worlds had crossed accidentally but irrevocably. He had been forced to accept a lift home, Sandra had been in the driveway unpacking groceries, Claude had volunteered to help, and his infiltration of their home — Bennet’s life — had begun.

***

Eleven years before…

Claude shifted Claire on his shoulders so that she could put the angel on the top of the Christmas tree, and he cheered as she applauded her efforts.

“That’s beautiful,” sighed Sandra, her hand resting on the full curve of her belly beneath the red Christmas sweater. “I love this time of year for all the family traditions. My grandmother made that angel.”

“My mum had one kind of like that,” said Claude, stepping back beside her to view their handiwork. “She knitted it when she was a girl. She was gonna teach me how, since I was her last chance.”

“You were going to knit?” Bennet seized on the incriminating tidbit with a cool glee as he tugged on a dead fairy light, firmly stuck in its socket, with a pair of needle-nosed pliers.

Claude drew himself up a little taller with feigned offense. “I’ll have you know, Noah—” he only ever used that name when Sandra was around, and always in that incipiently sarcastic tone “—that I do knit. Very well, thank you. I just never learned how to make little fussy things like that. Socks and jumpers, now, that’s real knittin’.” He grinned at Sandra’s amused amazement. “That’s what you get for bein’ the accident at the end of five boys.”

Sandra laughed, her smile softening as she looked up at her small daughter, intent on trying to braid his rumpled hair. “Thank you so much for helping,” she said warmly, rubbing his arm.

“No worries,” he said easily, swaying slightly from side to side to provoke a little giggle from Claire, who clung on to his hair as if to reins. “Thanks for letting me help. It’s been a while.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, squeezing his arm. “You’re more than welcome. You’re obligated — you’re part of the family, too, you know.”

The light came out of its socket with a sudden tinkle of glass, and Bennet grunted as Claude’s smile lit up his bony face. “I know.”

Sandra grinned and gave him a half hug. “You want some coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Are you sure you’re still English?” she teased, and he grinned.

“Yeah, it’s just you Yanks can’t make proper tea.”

“I am not a Yankee,” she retorted, giving him a little thump. “I am a Southerner, born and bred.”

“What’s a Yankee?” asked Claire, and Sandra rolled her eyes.

“See what you did?”

Bennet brushed the remains of the little light from the coffee table onto a piece of paper with the side of his hand, while Claude laughed and swung Claire down into his arms. She shrieked with laughter, grabbing his sweater to steady herself, and it pulled away from his shoulder, revealing a nasty scar just beneath the curve where his neck met his shoulder. It was basically two parallel lines, but the scar tissue was rough and thick, as if they had been gouged and ripped, perhaps even burned, rather than cut.

“What’s that?” asked Claire, her tiny forefinger tracing the ragged lines, and Sandra watched Claude’s face closely, but only the slightest of shadows passed across it as he slung Claire onto his hip and said casually,

“Ah, that’s just where the vampire kissed me.”

Claire “ooohed”, impressed and intrigued, and Claude winked at Sandra, who turned to her husband, sitting on the couch with a string of lights across his lap and tools meticulously arranged on the low table before him. “Want some coffee, Noah?”

“Yes, please, thank you,” he replied with a nod, and she left the room as Claude eased a restless Claire down onto her feet. She promptly skittered out of the room with Shortcake on her heels.

Claude turned to Bennet and slid his hands into the rear pockets of his jeans, his weight on one foot in a stance that was somehow questioning. The neckline of his burgundy sweater was still pulled away from the side of his neck, and the angry, ugly scar seemed livid in the coloured lights of the Christmas tree.

“What do you think?” he asked softly, eyes so dark that they no longer seemed blue, and Bennet put his hands on his knees, looking up at him as levelly as he could muster.

“It was a good cover. Guaranteed to impress Claire.”

Claude rolled his eyes and stepped to the side, gesturing sharply behind him in equal parts exasperation and amusement.

“I meant the tree, you pillock!”

“Oh.” It took Bennet a moment to recover, and he carefully laid the pliers in their place amongst the tools and wound the string of lights around a cardboard holder before stepping around the coffee table, coming to stand next to his partner. He studiously ignored the scar and the exposed collarbone and concentrated on the tree, though the heat pouring off Claude’s skinny, overmetabolized body seemed stifling. “It’s nice.”

Under his breath, Claude muttered, “Jesus wept…” and headed for the kitchen, pushing open the swing door with a stiff-armed palm.

Bennet looked up at the pink knitted figure on the top of the tree. If his glasses misted a little, he found, it created a lovely angel-hair effect with the lights.

***

Claire spoons ice chips between the chapped lips. There is a split in Claude’s lower lip, and a large, fading bruise on his left elbow. The adhesive tape on the edges of the stained gauze pad on the side of his neck is beginning to separate from the skin, and Claire sets aside the cup of ice chips on the small bedside table, searching through the drawers until she finds what she’s looking for.

“I’m going to put on a fresh bandage, okay?” she asks, and he responds with a unique combination of snap and tenderness.

“Yes, ma’am.”

They exchange grins, and Claire carefully teases the edges of the tape away from his skin, checking to see if the gauze is adhering to the wound before she removes the bandage altogether. Her eyebrows draw taut as she examines the ragged flesh.

“It looks like something clawed you. Or bit you.” Her voice is concerned as she soaks a clean gauze pad in alcohol.

“Ah, ’s nothing,” he says, eyes twinkling like silver up at her in the low light, and from his place at his desk in the corner, Bennet hears his daughter chime in with a soft laugh, “It’s just where the vampire kissed me.”

Vampire's Kiss 2/6? (Bennet/Claude, Teen)

Sat, 22 Dec 2007 23:20:54 GMT

Title: Vampire’s Kiss 2/6?
Author: nina_ds@ninamusing
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Bennet/Claude, traces of Bennet/Sandra, Claude/Peter, Claude/various OCs, even a wee hint of possible-maybe Sandra/Claude; also Claire and, as requested, Mr. Muggles in a cameo
Rating: Teen
Challenge: written for brave_new_slash’s Morally Grey November, to prompts by foofasaurus: “I'd love something set in the present, though it's not necessary. Mention or involvement of Claire is always a plus. Aaaand Mr. Muggles. Naturally.” This is set in the present, but also in the past(s).
Author’s notes: Thanks again to schnaucl for the beta; I kind of split the difference on commas!

Part One

***
“You fucking shot me. Again.”

The eyes boring into him turn from cold steel to hot flame in an instant. Bennet schools his features, determined not to betray a bit of discomfort in his expression, though he feels the unpleasant crawling in his guts as he leans back in the chair, closes the folder, and slides his fountain pen into the breast pocket of his suit coat.

“It was necessary,” he says calmly, setting the folder on the nightstand and folding his hands on his knee.

“Necessary?” The snort is weaker than he expected, and Bennet purses his lips against his concern as the big hand, pierced by an IV needle, trembles on its way up. Claude feels the small gauze bandage on the curve of his neck and shoulder. And he gives a short bark of laughter, even as he closes his eyes, hand falling against his chest. “Good shot!”

“It was just a tranquilizer.” Bennet stands up beside the bed, looking down at the pale, drawn face, safe now that the penetrating eyes have closed. “You did more damage trying to pull it out.”

“Yeah, same ol’ same ol’.” Claude arches slightly, obviously testing his limbs and finding them unreliable. His voice weakens further. “How long…”

“You’ll be out for a while.” Bennet leans a hip against the side of the bed, carefully taking the hand on Claude’s chest in both of his, laying it back by his side and checking the IV connections. “I misjudged your weight.” He watches the narrow chest rise and fall with shallow steadiness. “You’ve gotten skinny again.”

***

Fifteen years before…

Skinny, smart-ass kid.
Bennet tossed his keys onto the table in the entry hall with unnecessary vehemence and loosened his tie as he strode directly to the bar to pour himself a drink.

“Is everything all right?” asked Sandra, looking up with concern as she brushed the tawny coat of her yappy little dog. Shortcake. Or Sweetcakes. He could never remember.

“Fine,” he said, letting the bourbon hit his bloodstream before turning.

“I can see that.” There was nothing at all in her tone that suggested sarcasm, and still, he slammed down the glass on the bar.

“I get enough of that from him, I do not need it at home,” he said shortly, and strode down the hallway to the master bedroom, stripping off his jacket.

He wasn’t entirely sure why Claude (certainly not his name, but the lanky Brit seemed to revel in it far too much) got on his nerves the way he did, but five months into this partnership, and he found his thoughts turning frequently to reassignment. He was well on his way to an ulcer, and for that he blamed his partner.

Rains enjoyed calling Bennet “rookie” just as much as he enjoyed his own pseudonym. In fact, Rains seemed to enjoy practically everything that made Bennet uncomfortable.

It was bad enough the kid was his superior. So, he was only five or six years younger than Bennet, but there was something both puppyish and rebellious about him that made him seem like a kid, an impression reinforced by the loose, long-limbed stride and the thin frame that practically vibrated with energy. He was forever running, to and from work, in the morning on road trips, late at night if he could. He was relentlessly restless in the office, hopeless at paperwork, and constantly trying to engage Bennet in conversation — or worse, banter.

Then again, in the field, he was efficient, sleek, all business, practiced and professional far beyond his years. His special powers were often unnecessary, and Bennet would use the term “lethal” if he hadn't been such a stickler for correct word usage, as never once had there even been so much as serious injury in their operations. In action, he was … elegant. No wasted motion. Bennet knew he could learn a great deal just from observing him. Because there was no way in hell he was going to ask.

Bennet stepped under the steamy blast of water in the shower, hoping it would dispel his mood, but it only seemed to intensify it. Because that was another thing.

Primatech was cheap enough to make them share a motel room when they were on a trip. At least it was a double. Claude, however, seemed determined to make any room uncomfortably small by filling it up with that infuriating energy, and his utter lack of concern about things like sleeping in pajamas or taking his clothes into the bathroom with him. Bennet studiously ignored him, which seemed to amuse Claude even further, though that was one area in which he seemed content not to push or tease, for which Bennet heartfully thanked whatever power might control the impudent kid.

He was already in bed, reading over the next day’s files when Claude walked out of the shower, finger-combing his water-darkened hair.

“Does invisibility sap your modesty?” he asked irritably as he flipped a page, his shoulder toward Claude.

“Nah, mate,” came the response as Claude pulled back the bedspread on his bed. “But six years as an artist’s model will. Even if it’s for one of the Company’s medical illustrators.”

The edge in his voice raised the little hairs on the back of Bennet’s neck, and he turned over to face the challenge in the eyes, dark blue in the low light. Claude leaned on one knee on the edge of the bed, ready to slip in, but he turned his wrists outward as his arms hung loosely at his sides, inviting — no, challenging — Bennet to do what he had steadfastly avoided before.

It was as if the little hairs on the back of his neck spread their signal across his skin, tracing the gaze over Claude’s body on his own.

***

“Daddy — Mr. Muggles, you come back here!”

The knock at the door has him on his feet like a shot, and he feels foolish even as his arms instinctively spread, as if to shield the hospital bed in their basement from his daughter’s shocked eyes.

Mr. Muggles darts around his ankles, ignoring Claire’s admonition, and Claire is no longer thinking about the dog as she draws closer to the bed.

“What are you doing?” Her confusion is replaced by suspicion and concern, and, resigned, he lets her push him away so that she can see who is lying there.

Claire’s fingers curl around the raised railing of the hospital bed. Mr. Muggles takes a lap underneath the bed, then comes up to rest his paws on the lower rail, head tilted, a tiny echo of Claire’s curiosity, if not her concern. She peers closely at the unconscious man, studying the bandage on his neck before an unsteady fingertip traces a raised vein along the pale forearm to the IV on the back of the hand.

The patient stirs, a soft moan parting his lips, and the sandy eyelashes tremble. Just a sliver of blue-grey shows, the eyes dilated almost black as they struggle to focus.

“Claude!” she gasps, and curls her fingers around his, shooting a look of disbelief and betrayal at her father as he leans against the railing beside her. “You told us he was dead!”

“Not for lack o’trying,” rasps Claude, and Claire’s attention swerves back to the man in the bed.

“It is you!” she cries softly, tears in her eyes as she squeezes his hand.

“Claire.” His voice is warm, and the sharp features soften as she leans over him.

“Yeah, it’s me.” She laughs and sniffs at the same time, choking a little as she wipes tears from her cheeks. “Just a little bit older.”

“Yeah.” He smiles weakly, eyes brightening as he returns the pressure of her fingers. “Me, too.”

Relict, 2/? (9/R/J, Teen)

Sat, 22 Dec 2007 00:29:05 GMT

The thumps and knocks coming from the control room weren’t at all unusual, even the occasional muttering or expletive that the TARDIS demurely refrained from translating, but the second voice, the shared laughter — that was still new.

Rose felt a silly grin on her face that only widened as she climbed the ramp toward the console. Her fingers lingered on the battered leather of the jacket slung over the back of the old chair with its rakish accents of silver duct tape, and she saw Jack’s head just over the edge of the console opposite her.

She circled around to where the Doctor had pulled up the floor grating and was settled on his back under a mass of exposed circuitry, long legs draped over the grating at the knee. Jack was crouched next to him, neck craned under to watch what he was doing, and she arrived just as the Doctor put his sonic screwdriver in his teeth, reaching underneath some loose wires with one hand as he held the other hand out, palm up.

Jack slapped another tool — which looked almost identical to Rose’s eyes — into his palm as if it were a surgical procedure, and Rose couldn’t help the giggle. Boys and their toys. God, it was like watching Mickey and some of his mates with their cars.

Jack looked up at her, flashing her one of those Hollywood grins, his eyes the same blue as his tight-fitting sky-blue T-shirt (and didn’t he know it, too), but she could see the difference. This wasn’t the conman come-on she had met, only a few days ago. This was much more natural, warm, his entire face and body relaxed, even though he was crammed rather uncomfortably into the crawlspace, one hand clutching the grating to keep him from tumbling over on top of the Doctor.

Not that she thought he’d mind that, really. Nor, frankly, would she, given the opportunity sprawled out like that, lean and strangely young in black jeans and a black T-shirt. She suddenly realized that although she’d seen him without the jacket on a few occasions — always a little rattled that he seemed so skinny and…vulnerable — she had never seen his bare arms. There was Jack, all perfect muscles and bronzed skin on display (was there a little unnecessary flexing going on there?), and here she was, staring instead at long, bony arms wrapped in flat ribbons of muscle and a topological map of blue veins, the skin milk-pale with a fine scattering of coppery-gold hair. It seemed somehow…inappropriate to see him thus exposed, and she felt a blush heating her ears as she looked shyly back at Jack.

She thought she saw a flicker of sympathy in his eyes before their moment was interrupted by a strangled, “Oi!”

They both grinned, brightened by a sliver of relief, and Jack reached up to catch the sonic screwdriver as the Doctor pushed it out of his mouth with his tongue. Rose caught the inside of her lip with her teeth, wondering why on earth that little glimpse of the underside of his tongue made her feel like a thousand little explosions were going on underneath her skin, and she shoved her fists into the cargo pockets of her khakis, rubbing her flaming cheek against her shoulder as it rose involuntarily toward her ear.

Jack retrieved the screwdriver as the Doctor asked him, “Can you get your hand in there and hold this up?”

Jack linked his fingers through the grating so he could lean in, twisting his arm one way, then the other, trying to get in far enough, jerking back with a surprised “Ow!” as a couple of sparks burst out. He shook his hand with an apologetic look at the Doctor, who rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Well, if you can’t—”

“Who sez?” retorted Jack with a cheeky grin, and he flipped over, slinging his legs over the grating and lying back perpendicular to the Doctor. His head resting on the narrow chest, he snaked one of those perfectly muscled bronzed arms in underneath where the Doctor was working.

The Time Lord looked surprised for a brief moment in which Rose held her breath, then he grinned and said approvingly, “Fantastic. Yep. Just a little higher?”

Jack obeyed with another dazzling smile – apparently directed at no one but himself – and Rose tried to calm the rushing of blood in her ears. She recognized that warm tone of the Doctor’s voice. It was the one that said, “Now Rose asks the right questions,” and “I only take the best, I've got Rose.”

“Ah, there we go. That’s perfect. Thanks, Jack. Would ye hand me that gap spanner?”

Jack felt around on the floor beside him and came up with the appropriate tool, passing it to the Doctor. They traded tools with an efficient gesture, pressing palms together to stabilize the metal objects, then changing the grasp with a brush of their fingers that made Rose’s hand tingle. She might not know those arms, but she knew those fingers, that palm. She knew how her hand fit inside their grasp, where the calluses were, how strong and secure that clasp was, how gentle. Her hand was tiny in his. Jack’s was just as big — the palm as broad, the fingers thicker if not so long. A good match.

She didn’t realize she was gnawing on her lower lip until Jack’s blue eyes caught hers and he winked — even his eyelashes were longer than hers, she noted petulantly; at least longer than her real ones, before the generous daily application of Boots WonderLash™. But his cheeky grin, the way he wriggled a little, settling in comfortably to help the Doctor not despite but because of their casual intimacy, surprised her. It wasn’t the superior look of triumph she expected; or, that frankly, she would have given him had she been smart enough to get herself into that particular position. It was a look that suggested teamwork.

She returned the grin instinctively, her teeth still catching her lip, and he stretched, his body undulating gracefully in the form-fitting clothes, adjusting so that his head rested perfectly in the arch of ribs a little too clearly delineated beneath the thin black cotton knit. When he turned his head against the Doctor’s breastbone to pass the next requested implement, the action hitched the black T-shirt up a little on one side. Just a flash of pale skin, the curve of hip-bone above the loose waistband, and Rose felt her blush creeping over entire body.

A little grunt and a metallic clang preceded a whoosh of relief that made Jack’s head dip under the diaphragmatic pressure. “There you are, you old sweetheart,” he said affectionately, patting the metal panel, and Jack’s grin was incandescent. With a cheeky glance at Rose, Jack reached up, drawing his fingernail lightly down the inside curve of the wiry bicep, toward the tendons arching beneath soft, sandy hair revealed by the loose sleeve, and the sudden contraction of the thin body and deadened thud of bone on metal was accompanied by an explosive curse of the variety that apparently made the TARDIS blush, its colours warming from green toward gold.

Jack clearly knew when to beat a hasty retreat, and Rose fell back, giggling as he scrambled out of the crawlspace with surprising agility, followed quickly by a long, thin streak of black. Whether the Doctor tripped him or he fell on his own, Jack sprawled laughing on the grating, quite happy to be trapped underneath the rangy body, even when he twisted around to get a blast of gunmetal blue eyes in full stormcloud mode. “So, ticklish, Time Lord?”

Rose held her breath, faintly terrified that Jack was so brave – or foolhardy.

The Doctor sat back on his heels astride Jack’s hips as the Time Agent settled fully on his back underneath him, challenge in his perfectly handsome face. “C’mon,” he said softly, seductively, his fingers slipping underneath the long fingers spread on the black-jeaned thighs. He was caressing both hands and legs as he lifted his chin defiantly toward the powerful alien. “Play a little.” Jack’s nervousness was betrayed only by the flick of his tongue around his lips.

“What makes you think I’m not?” he asked, in his “I am so impressive” voice, just a moment before his face broke into that blinding grin. “C’mon, Jack, you got exactly what you wanted — a chase. I’m just too fast for you.” A cocky little tilt of the head prompted a surprised laugh from Rose, and the Doctor flashed her a conspiratorial grin before returning his attention to Jack, who had taken the opportunity to lace his fingers with the Doctor’s, pressing palm to palm.

The smile faded as he turned his eyes back to Jack, and he took the subtle momentum of Jack’s gesture to lean forward, pushing their hands toward the flooring. Jack gave him resistance, but only to ease him down, their hands beside his head.

The silence seemed to increase, filling up the console room as it expanded through time. Rose held her breath, watching Jack’s body relax, warm, yearn upward, without perceptible motion. Storm and sky met, and the tiny motion of Jack’s thumb against the inside of the Doctor’s wrist suddenly seemed huge.

The wiry arms bent, flat muscles tightening as he leaned closer, inexorably. Rose could hear nothing but the rush of blood in her ears, and before she could even wonder whether it was from arousal or jealousy, Jack’s eyes flashed with concern.

“Doctor?” he asked, and only then did Rose see the trembling in the muscles, the wavering in the taut frame, and Jack was clearly poised to catch him.

Rose stepped forward instinctively, and the waver became a sway, elbows buckling.

Vampire's Kiss 1/6?

Wed, 19 Dec 2007 23:54:49 GMT

Title: Vampire’s Kiss, 1/6?
Author: nina_ds @ ninamusing
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Bennet/Claude, traces of Bennet/Sandra, Claude/Peter, Claude/various OCs, even a wee hint of possible-maybe Sandra/Claude; also Claire and, as requested, Mr. Muggles in a cameo.
Rating: Teen
Challenge: written for brave_new_slash’s Morally Grey November, to prompts by foofasaurus: “I'd love something set in the present, though it's not necessary. Mention or involvement of Claire is always a plus. Aaaand Mr. Muggles. Naturally.” This is set in the present, but also in the past(s).
Author’s notes: I apologize sincerely and abjectly for lateness. It’s that time of year. It just doesn’t stop, and then all my betas were similarly swamped. Many thanks to schnaucl, who stepped up to beta something not even in her fandom! Thank you!

***

He watches his quarry waver, fingernails clawing frantically at the curve of neck and shoulder, and he feels the lightning of the quicksilver eyes flash through his veins, jangling long-dead nerves, setting alight a string of memories pop*pop*pop like firecrackers. A swift pulse in the hollow of a collarbone, a deft wrist, the crack of a fist, a laugh, a rage, the sharp edge of a tongue that can melt into honey in the stutter of a heartbeat, blood and bile and an endless drop.

Red stains long, pale fingers, and a look of such disappointment greys the blurring eyes, dispelling any trace of blue.

He reaches out, this time, finally, to catch him, but the anger slams him back like a wall, and he can only watch

as he falls.

To the roof.

To the street.

To the rocks below.

***

Twelve years before…

The shrieks pierced the crisp night air, and he was up in a moment and down the hallway, but his step slowed as he saw Sandra leaning easily in the doorway, her head resting against the frame. As he drew closer, he could hear the giggles and see past her, in the soft globe of light from the pink-shaded bedside lamp, that Claire was hanging upside down from her knees hooked over Claude’s forearm, blonde curls streaming down. Her breath was coming in short pants of laughter, her arms swinging over her head as Claude supported her unobtrusively with one hand at the nape of her neck.

“Y’want up?” he asked, swinging her slightly, a devilish grin broadening his angular face, and she cried,

“Nooooooo!” even as he swung her easily up toward the ceiling.

Sandra caught her breath, then smiled as he caught her four-year-old daughter easily, his big hands practically enveloping her torso, never having strayed more than half an inch from her as the peals of laughter resumed, tiny teeth flashing.

“Y’wanna fly?” The question was asked with an almost conspiratorial air, and her eyes got big and the little hands that had grabbed instinctively at Claude’s shirtsleeves let go, spreading out wide as he held her over his head at arms’ length.

He watched as his partner turned, sailing his delighted daughter through the air. His wife watched lovingly, and as Claude pretended to drop the small child suddenly by bending his elbows and releasing the pressure of his hands, only to catch her less than an inch above him, more shrieks of laughter were joined by a masculine chuckle. Claire’s little fingers twined in the dark blonde hair as she pressed her forehead and nose to his.

“All right,” said her mother indulgently, pushing off the doorframe to enter the room. “Time for bed.”

The groans of protest, one soprano, one baritone, went up in harmony, and she laughed gently, her hand resting lightly against the white cotton shirt, taut between rangy shoulderblades as Claire wrapped her arms fiercely around Claude’s neck.

“No!” She thrust her chin out mutinously. “Claude promised to tell me ’bout the zombie cambles.”

“Oh, Claude, really.” Sandra almost stumbled on her own protest with a curious, “The zombie Campbells? Is that some Scottish clan of the undead?”

Claude chuckled as he swung Claire down into bed, tickling her feet through the rubber-treaded soles of her footie pajamas as he said, “Nah, zombie cannibals.”

“Oh, of course, that makes perfect sense.” She patted his back as he sat down on the side of the little bed, folding Claire’s kicking feet under the duvet. Sandra’s hand slipped over his shoulder as she sat in the wicker chair beside the nightstand, watching with an indulgent smile as Claire and Claude waged a playful battle to get her under the covers. “Do you think that’s appropriate bedtime story material?”

“Yes! It’s ’citing!” declared Claire, and Claude winked at her, giving her a little pinch to the side that had her squirming and giggling anew.

“Well, she’s not had nightmares yet,” conceded Sandra, and Claude flashed a grin at her as he turned to settle himself against the headboard, his arm framing Claire protectively as she nested against the pillows.

“She knows I wouldn’t let anything hurt her.” The angular face softened as he looked down at the child who grinned up at him. The tilt of Sandra’s head was concerned, and Claude playfully flicked Claire’s nose with the tip of his finger. “She knows I’m here–”

“Even if I can’t see him,” Claire chorused with him, cuddling into his side, and Bennet stepped away, invisible to his own family.

As he strode purposefully back to his study, he ignored the skein of relief and jealousy trailing behind him and shepherded his thoughts back to the intricacies of transporting paper products interstate along the most efficient routes.

***

He sits beside the bed, legs crossed, folder open on his lap, fountain pen at the ready. The picture of efficiency. But his eyes slide away from the files, from the needles piercing shockingly prominent blue veins in the wiry forearms, over shoulders sharp and thin beneath white cotton to a face that fades in and out of familiarity.

The proud prow of a nose and promontory cheekbones seem harder but the wide mouth softer now that the beard has gone. The youthful glow that he had always resented has fled, leaving a pattern of tiny lines at the corners of the eyes and mouth and glints of silver in the winter-wheat hair that now dusted across the remarkable skull, little more than a shadow.

The stillness is alien. Despite the whining bleep of the monitor, he finds himself reaching out to check for a pulse.

“Don’t—” the hoarse whisper stops him short, and the hard steel gaze cuts “—touch me.”

Relict (DW, Nine/Rose/Jack) 1/?

Wed, 19 Dec 2007 04:12:55 GMT

Title: Relict
Author: nina_ds@ninamusing
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Nine/Rose/Jack
Rating: Teen, possibly rising
Challenge: For OT3 Ficathon; written for dark_aegis who wanted Nine/Rose/Jack between The Doctor Dances and Boom Town; UNIT (a mention is fine); the sonic screwdriver failing/breaking at the worst possible time; Hurt/Comfort with the Doctor being the focus of the hurt with the others being the comfort.
Author's Note: My thanks to wendymr for the beta, and my deep apologies for the "under-the-wire" post. This may read like a standalone, but a keen eye will note that, other than the dramatis personae and the time period, not a single one of the prompts has yet been answered.

***

They really were so cute.

Except for those times when he wanted to smack their heads together, or better yet, tie them together face to face (wrists firmly behind the other’s back; good if they were standing up, even better if they were lying down, or sitting, legs arranged around each other’s hips — he had considered several scenarios in ever-increasing detail) so that they were forced to really look at each other and do something about all that electrochemical energy flying around. It was obviously short-circuiting their higher reasoning; it was certainly playing holy havoc with his.

Jack was used to his hormonal level being high and constant, with plenty of opportunity for burning off the excess at regular intervals. Living with these two was like a constant flow of some of the most effective stimulus he could remember (that he could remember), rising to the boil then rendering down to an essence even more clarified and intense as they were diverted by some mechanical emergency or opportunity to run.

It had been six days.

One hundred and forty-two standard Earth hours in linear time, according to his wristcomp. It felt as if time was bigger on the inside of the TARDIS, too. Since he had stepped inside, every moment seemed so much fuller than at any other time in his life, even though all they’d done was perform basic maintenance on the ship, enrage a small village on Combrit by holding hands in public, and do a bit of sightseeing.

When they stopped off at the bazaars of Aretaxela because the Doctor needed milk for his tea and optical connectors and Rose needed new trainers, a warmer coat for some of the more arctic climes they had encountered, and something she mumbled that sounded suspiciously like “sports bra” (although even his mind boggled a little at that juxtaposition — must be some twenty-first century jargon that wasn’t deemed necessary to his training), Jack had taken himself off to find a little of what he needed.

The bazaars of the city of Axhe on Aretaxela in the fifth century of the Magnum Pax offered practically everything the traveller in time and space needed. Sex was freely traded here, safely and openly and with great skill and style, and he had visited several establishments, oddly dissatisfied with even the most beautiful, exotic, and talented offered to him. He was eyeing up a long, lean pantherine creature on the dance floor of Zarua’s when the broad, triangular head turned to him, fixing him with a golden stare, and he realized why he wasn’t already there, running his hands over the lush black fur and purring with promise. The gaze was intelligent and powerful. And not blue.

But he smiled and made his way to the dance floor, and it was a matter of necessity, like the coat. At least he could chose a style that suited him, and enjoy it for the moment. His pride refused to make any substitutions, even mental ones, for that would be unfair to the one with whom he shared the moment, and he stayed firmly, blessedly, in the moment.

***

With a lighter step and a surge of physical energy, he made his way back to the area of the vast bazaar where textiles and jewellery were sold. His wristcomp found them easily — so close together their signals overlapped, he noted with an amused snort — and he caught sight of them at a table of trinkets, Rose’s hair falling against her flushed cheeks as she bent intently over the small, brightly-coloured objects of metal and glass and stone. The Doctor stood behind her, a large package wrapped in a blue-and-brown woven shawl under one arm, a pair of Rose-sized pink-and-silver trainers hanging by their laces from his long fingers. His free hand was shoved to the bottom of his jacket pocket, his weight on one foot (Jack cursed the hip-length jacket, because he knew what that paradoxically relaxed impatient stance did for the long legs and round runner’s rear). The expression on the Doctor’s face was an already familiar combination of adoration and exasperation that Jack had never seen so eloquently performed by any other being.

He could not hear them over the dull roar around him, but when Rose picked up a chandelier necklace of swirling, multi-coloured glass and turned to him for approval, the dubious tension across the cheekbones was not masked by the cheerful smile edged with just a touch of panic. Rose was a quick one, and Jack admired the way she returned the necklace swiftly to its hook and looked for something else. He knew she was not offended by the Doctor’s response; even after only a hundred and forty-odd hours, Jack knew that Rose was not so much making choices for the Doctor’s approval as trusting his sense of what was worth her attention.

As he drew nearer, she took up two slightly less ornate pieces, almost weighing them in her hands. “That’s nice.” He nodded toward the one in her left hand, with a stone swirled in green and blue.

“Oh, hi, Jack!” She beamed at him, then turned her attention toward the necklace he had favoured as the Doctor gave him a brief, assessing look.

“Get what you need?” he asked with an almost imperceptible lift of one eyebrow. Clearly, the Doctor’s species had more facial muscles than humans because, despite their similar outward appearance, Jack had never seen a human with that kind of subtlety and transparency of expression. Or perhaps it was just this one; he wouldn’t put it past him. A little shiver trickled down his spine, cool-hot like sweat, and his smile was a little overbright in return.

“Absolutely,” he declared as Rose picked up another necklace with a soft expression of wonder. A simple gold chain suspended a small teardrop-shaped stone that gleamed golden brown inside a delicate wire cage made of a continuous thread of metal. The spiral was not quite symmetrical, not even quite a spiral, like an Escher waterfall, and the stone shifted intensity in the light as she held it up.

“That would look beautiful with your eyes.” The practiced line seemed fresh in his mouth, and it pleased Jack as much as it surprised him.

“Really? You think so?” she asked, holding it up against her throat, but turning to the Doctor for his assessment.

The steel-blue eyes shifted toward the grey as the Doctor looked from the pendant, nestling against the curve of her breasts above the white tank top, to her eyes. “Yeah,” he said simply, and Rose’s smile radiated delight as she turned to hand over coins to the vendor.

The Doctor was watching Rose. Jack watched the Doctor. Even if Rose had, he hadn’t missed the profundity of the Doctor’s simple response, and the mercurial eyes darkened inscrutably as they traced the curve of her head and neck as she bent over the chain, picking at the clasp with the fingernails that she hadn’t quite stopped chewing.

“Can you—oops, got it!” She turned to face the Doctor as she fitted the clasp behind her neck and flipped her hair free. “Thank you!” She slid her arm through his free arm, leaning against him in a half-hug that lingered as she rested her head against the leather-clad shoulder. The angular features softened as the Doctor looked down at the top of her head, and Jack had another surge of desire to tie them together.

Or at least knock their heads together.

Rose reached out to grab Jack’s sleeve, tugging him after them as they pushed through the crowd, and the Doctor glanced back to check he was with them. Jack grinned and caught Rose’s hand with his, lengthening his stride to catch up.

Tying them together had one great advantage, he decided. He might get tangled up with them.