wishiknewwho: (Sweet Rose)
[personal profile] wishiknewwho
Title: A Little Longer
Author: wishiknewwho
Rating:  soft M
Characters: Eleven / Rose
Dislcaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. 
Spoilers: None 
Summary: He's more old-fashioned now, so he brings her flowers.
Beta:  Just Word Spellcheck and me on this one.  Not sure which of us is worse.
Author Notes: Yes, I did write Eleven / Rose.  No one was more surprised about this than I was.  Written for challenge 38 at [livejournal.com profile] then_theres_us.

He’s more old-fashioned now, so he brings her flowers. Not roses. That would just make her laugh, and not in a good way. Instead he chooses tulips, a half dozen in a shade of perfect pink that will match the pink of her smile.

He waits outside Torchwood Tower for three evenings, shuffling around on the other side of the street, waiting for her to leave work. Every evening she appears. Every evening he loses his nerve. Every evening the tulips wilt.

He buys more flowers the next afternoon and the next.

“You must have really fucked up, mate,” the vendor says as he hands him his change on the third day.

He gives him a rueful smile. “Something like that,” he replies. He heads to Torchwood and stations himself on what is becoming his piece of pavement.

For her, it’s the time in between, the time when they were apart and she was working tirelessly to find her way back to him. This Rose hasn’t seen him since that day on Bad Wolf Bay.

He’s a different man now, longer hair, a younger face, another set of teeth. And while he thought his regeneration might bring a bit of relief, his hearts still twist and his hand still feels empty when he thinks of her. No matter what he does, he can’t seem to get over her and he’s beginning to worry that her memory might follow him around for the rest of his lives.

She steps out of the building at half nine. It seems that she is working later and later every night. She’s different now, too. Her hair is longer and he can see the dark circles under her eyes even from across the street. She dresses up, high heels and high-waisted skirts that make his heart beat irregularly. Today she’s wearing a black dress with a wide belt at the middle. Her red stilettos make her legs look impossibly long and he wonders how she’d measure up to him now, where her knees her hips her head would press if he wrapped his arms around her.

He forces his nerves to fuel his courage and he crosses the street before he has time to think better of it. He clutches the flowers tightly and the cellophane around them crinkles.

He’s two steps behind her when he says her name, “Rose,” in that soft timbre it seems he will always use with her, only with her.

She recognises it instantly and halts for a moment before turning around. When she does, he sees there are tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “Doctor?” she asks, and he knows instantly that he’s not the one she wants.

He swallows and forces himself to nod although his every instinct is telling him to run. Nothing is going the way he planned.

“Oh my God,” she says, overwhelming him in a hug. He’s so surprised that he doesn’t have time to move his hand and she crushes the flowers between them. “When?” Her lips brush his ear and he shivers, his free arm winding around her waist.

“Not long ago,” he answers, telling himself that he’s going to let go of her any minute now. For all that she’s changed, she still smells exactly the same and he has missed that so much.

“You’re not here to take me back, are you?” she asks, and he realises that she can read the sadness in his demeanour, that she already knows that this isn’t going to be the sort of reunion she’s been hoping for.

He runs his hand up and down her spine, again and again and again until she shivers like he did when her lips touched his skin. “No,” he says as gently as he can.

She holds him for a moment longer, clutching him tighter before letting him go and taking a half step back from him, just enough so that she can get a look at him. Her eyes linger on his hair, skirt his eyes, and stop on his bowtie. “Is this a clip-on?” she asks, giving it a playful tug.

“The bowtie is cool,” he says, unstoppable grin spreading across his face.

“Love the bowtie.” She stretches the vowel out and he knows that things are okay with them, that they will always be all right, no matter what body he is in. Rose Tyler loves the Doctor and that’s never going to change.

“Love the bowtie,” he echoes. He reaches up and cups her face in his new hand, marvelling at the way the curve of her jaw and the apple of her cheekbone are still a perfect fit for his fingers.

“Are you still...do you still?” Her voice is breathy as she waits for his answer.

“Yes,” he says, awkwardly handing her the tulips. “These are for you.”

She takes his hand and leads him to her flat.


Her flat is much as he imagined it to be, cluttered, messy, open containers and half-full cups on the work surface, books in stacks, others on the coffee table, the sofa, the arm of the chair, all with cracked spines. She told him before, after she made her way back to him in the short time they had before she left with the other, of all the research she’d done, claiming that she read and read and read until the words were blurry. He sees the evidence now.

“It’s a wreck,” she says without a hint of apology as she drops her bag and he closes the door behind him. Her keys jangle as she drops them in the ceramic bowl on the hallway table. The flowers go next to the bowl.

“It’s lovely,” he lies. He hopes that when she returns here with the other him that they find a new flat or at least do something to make this one feel like a home.

She turns to face him, a gleam in her eyes, and he takes two steps backward until his shoulders meet with the door. It’s not like they’ve never done this before, he’s touched her, kissed her, moved over her and under her and inside of her, but it all feels different now and it’s a little terrifying.

She stops, sensing his apprehension. “Doctor,” she says, exhaling softly.

Her voice melts him and he gives her a little nod. She loops her arms around his neck and kisses him, her tongue touching his, gently at first and then with enthusiasm. It takes him a minute to get his bearings, but then he kisses her back, remembering how much she used to like it when he’d skate his tongue over her bottom lip. Her helpless little sigh is as exactly the same as he hears it in his memory, only so much better.

Her hands slip under his jacket, sliding it down his arms and to the floor. Her fingers find their way under his braces and her lips curl into a smirk even as she’s kissing him.

“What?” he asks, only pulling away enough to speak.

“You,” she says. “Just you.”

He smiles back and kisses her again. His hands graze the belt at her waist and he walks his fingers around to the buckle, hesitating for a moment.

She unclips one brace and then the other before levelling him with a challenging look. He sucks in a breath before undoing the buckle. She tugs at his bowtie, frowning as it gives her trouble and then humming triumphantly as it finally unwinds. He meets her button for button as she works her way down his shirt, the tips of his fingers grazing the lace of her bra as hers trail over his chest. When the dress is open to her waist he pushes it over her hips, letting it fall to the floor, pooling around her shoes with a rustle. She bites her lip shyly as his gaze soaks her up.

“Lovely,” he murmurs, kissing her lips and both her cheeks before reacquainting himself with the soft skin of her neck. Before he would’ve said more, told her how beautiful she was, how she made him feel, what he wanted to do to her. The sentiment is still there, but the words no longer are. Besides, he’d only blush now if he said all that to her.

She steps out of her shoes and he helps her untangle her feet from the dress, lifting her and stepping away. They share a grin at their success. “I’ve missed you,” she says soberly.

“I’ve missed you,” he replies. “Missed you, missed you, missed you.” It turns into a chant that she punctuates with kisses.

She pulls his shirt from his trousers and then pushes it from his shoulders. Her eyes wander over his chest and he winds up blushing despite himself. She presses her hand over his hearts, opening her fingers wide until she can feel the twin beats under his ribcage. “Come on,” she says.

He follows her through the flat, not letting himself think of how bad of an idea this is, how he’ll have to leave her soon, and how it’s going to hurt them both all over again. Everything he’s wanted for so long is right in front of him.

Once in her bedroom, she guides his hand to her knickers and looks up at him. “Touch me,” she requests in a whisper. “Please.” Her appeal is so heartfelt it makes his breath catch. He complies, slipping his hand inside the fabric and watching her face intently as her eyes fall shut.

It takes everything he has to focus on what he’s doing and not on the sounds she’s making, on the slow rocking of her hips. Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds later she shudders against his hand, rising up on tiptoe before collapsing against him, her forehead damp against his shoulder.

He wraps his arms around her as her breathing evens out. He presses his mouth to her hair and inhales as her hands go to his trousers. She unbuttons them and finishes undressing him and then pushes her knickers down her legs, stepping out of them slowly. He reaches behind her, carefully unhooks her bra, and she lets it slide to the floor. She holds his hand up, pressing their palms together and interlocking their fingers. It’s a different fit, but it’s the right fit and that’s really all that matters.

He overbalances her and they tumble to the bed. She buries her fingers in his hair as she kisses him. “Rose.” He murmurs her name between kisses. She senses his desperation and lets her legs fall open. Her nails dig into his back as he enters her.

They are quiet for a moment, and still. Her breathing is erratic and her eyes swim with sadness, enchantment, affection. He wants to tell her that he loves her, but it is not his place. She cannot hear it from him. Instead he settles for kissing her with as much feeling as he can as they begin to move.

Just this once, time slows to a standstill for him, and he lets himself pretend that this is forever, that this won’t be his last time to see her like this. He gets lost in her.

After, his head falls to her shoulder and her feet move up and down the backs of his calves.

“Is this goodbye?” she whispers, her voice breaking on the last word. He pulls back to look at her.

It is for him, but not for her. There’s so much waiting for her, she only has to keep looking. “No, Rose,” he says, his voice quiet but fiercely insistent. “You’re going to see me again, the me you knew. You just have to keep working.”

She nods and he can see her resolve building. It’s an expression he knows well. She doesn’t understand the word ‘impossible.’

He eases himself off her but he keeps her close, pulling her flush against him. She curls herself around him.

“And what about you?” she asks, her voice hesitant, like she already knows the answer. “Am I still with you?”

He can’t answer her, she can’t know, so instead he smiles sadly at her and kisses her forehead. His hand moves up and down her back and he tries to memorise everything about her.

“Okay,” she says, pressing kisses to his chest, his neck. “I know that you can’t tell me, but I can figure it out, yeah? So I’m just going to pretend that we had a long time together, ages and ages until we were almost sick of each other. And if I didn’t tell you then, I’m telling you now. I loved every moment of it.”

He holds her closer, tries to soak up every last bit of her before he lets her go. She has to get back to finding him and he has to get back to his same old life. “Thank you, Rose,” he says. He came here to get closure, but this doesn’t feel like an ending at all. Being with her is addictive. She has over a year before she gets the dimension cannon to work, and he’d be lying to himself if he said he won’t be back.

“Can you stay a little longer?” she asks, throwing her leg over both of his.

“Yeah,” he answers, his hand finding hers. “I can stay a little longer.”

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January 2012

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