Fic: Such Great Heights
Title: Such Great Heights
Author: nocookiesjustbooks 2nd2ndalto
Character/Pairing: Ten/Rose
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: BBC owns everything, obviously.
Excerpt: You know, it’s rather an interesting phenomenon.
Author's Notes: Thanks very much to unfolded73 for the beta.
“Aeroplane. Aerrrrroooplane,” the Doctor rolls the word around in his mouth as the plane begins to taxi down the runway. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, looking far more pleased than any of their fellow passengers at the prospect of a seven and a half hour flight. He ducks his head to peer out the tiny window into the darkness and then straightens again, his leg jiggling.
“Did you know, Rose,” he begins, jostling her with his shoulder when she doesn’t turn to him immediately, “that the word ‘aeroplane’ has its root in Greek? Aer, which means air, of course, and planos, which means ‘wandering’ - well, it also means, ‘flat’, but I prefer ‘wandering’. Wandering through the air, isn’t that brilliant?”
Rose smiles mildly, pulling her seatbelt snug around her hips. “Mmm, brilliant,” she agrees.
“Rose, it’s been ages and ages since I’ve been on a proper commercial airliner - the last time I flew they had the most fantastic little packages of nuts….” He continues, expounding on the ingenuity of airline food, while Rose’s attention is diverted by the flight attendant slowly patrolling the aisle, admonishing those who haven’t safely stowed their carry-on, and directing passengers to fasten their seatbelts.
The pair of them don’t have any carry-on - no luggage at all, actually, which seemed to raise some eyebrows at the ticket counter. Their most recent adventure began with an uneventful landing in New York City and ended with, among other things, a band of defeated Kjndfgks and a one-way teleport to London. They’re now about to leave the tarmac at Heathrow, hours away from being reunited with the TARDIS.
The flight attendant slowly draws nearer, and Rose nudges her seatmate. “Doctor - your seatbelt.”
He doesn’t appear to hear her though, now enthusing over a history of early aviation and his involvement therein (“...and then Orville offered me a job at their bicycle shop, but of course I was very busy saving the universe…”)
“Doctor.”
Failing to attract his attention, she reaches over him, collecting the ends of his seatbelt and securing it around his waist. Her fingers brush his thigh and his spirited monologue comes to an abrupt halt. He blinks at her as she straightens in her seat, looking a bit like a surprised fish, having failed to close his mouth when he’d stopped talking.
“Your erm…” Rose gestures to his lap. “Your seatbelt.”
He gazes at her for a moment, seemingly uncomprehending, then shakes his head. “Right, yes. What was I saying?”
She grins. “You were telling me about your mate Orville.”
“Of course. Champion bicyclist, he was. It’s really quite fascinating - mathematicians - well, mathematicians besides myself - they’ve spent over a century trying to figure out how bicycles can possibly stay upright. It’s quite remarkable when you think about it, rather like an elephant balancing on a ping pong ball…”
The Doctor falls silent again as the safety presentation begins, immediately sitting prim and upright in his seat, the model student. Rose yawns, fishing in the seat pocket for her Hello! magazine, and he swats her hand away, looking ridiculously severe.
She giggles and he pokes her with his elbow, pulling a face. She elbows him back and they stage a brief and not-nearly-silent-enough battle for the armrest, ending when the flight attendant actually pauses in her seat-cushion-as-flotation-device lecture to send a stern look their way.
Safety presentation concluded, the Doctor settles back into his seat and shoots Rose a disarming grin that makes her stomach flutter pleasantly and may or may not lead to her relenting and allowing him to share the tiny armrest.
“So Rose, seven hours and fifteen minutes left - what shall we do?” he asks, looking as if the possibilities are thrillingly endless.
“Well,” she considers, shifting uncomfortably in her stiff little seat, “it’s actually the middle of the night - London time, anyway. I think what we’re meant to do is sleep.”
As if on cue, the cabin lights dim, and the Doctor’s face falls.
“But I’m not sleepy,” he protests. “Besides, Rose, when’s the last time we had seven hours and fifteen minutes to spend together?”
“Doctor we spend all our time together,” she laughs.
“Well, yes, of course, but this is uninterrupted time, Rose. Quality time. One on one time.” He taps her nose. “What do you say?"
The Doctor, as it turns out, has a deck of cards somewhere in the depths of his coat - complete but for all the face cards and two of the fours. He’s adamant in insisting this small deficiency is completely inconsequential, and proceeds to teach Rose a rather ridiculous card game she can neither pronounce the name of nor follow the rules to. That turns out not to matter either, though, as somehow she manages to win five hands in a row, the Doctor finally snatching her cards from her in a mostly put-on fit of pique. He’s more than appeased when their meals arrive and Rose generously shares both her crisps and her banana.
The remains of their meals are cleared away, and Rose glances around the cabin. A few passengers have switched on their reading lights, but most are either dozing or trying to. She’s quite knackered herself, having been up for more hours than she can count.
“Think I might try to catch a kip,” she comments, and the Doctor makes a disparaging noise.
“Rose, sleep is for--”
“Humans?”
“Wellll. Yes.”
“Which I am. Besides, dunno if you remember, but you woke me up at the crack of dawn to go looking for Kjndfgks.”
“Rose, there is no ‘crack of dawn’ on the--”
“Fine, crack of not-dawn.” Rose leans back into her seat, stretching and wiggling in an attempt to find a position conducive to human slumber.
“It was very nearly not-morning,” the Doctor tells her dismissively.
“Mmm.”
“And besides,” he adds softly, “I missed you.”
Rose pauses in her fruitless wiggling, turning to look at him. “You… missed me? While I was sleeping?”
He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the latch on his tray table. “You sleep a lot.”
They’re both silent for a moment, contemplating the seat backs in front of them, and Rose casts her mind back over the myriad times the Doctor’s woken her from a sound slumber long before she was ready for consciousness. Sometimes by engaging in particularly noisy pursuits in the corridor outside her room, sometimes simply bouncing through her door and flicking the lights on. Sometimes, very occasionally, she’s woken to find him lying next to her on top of the covers, a respectable distance between them, regarding her with an inscrutable expression. She promises herself to be less irritable with him in the future on these occasions.
“M’sorry,” she offers eventually, laying her hand over his on the armrest.
They stay like that for a long moment, then he shifts his hand, carefully twining his fingers with hers.
“How are your Eustachian tubes?”
“My… what?”
“Your Eustachian tubes, Rose. They connect your middle ear to your pharynx.” He reaches out a finger to trace a light path from her ear to the side of her nose, down to her throat and she giggles in surprise, trying not to let her eyes fall shut at his delicate touch.
“Excellent for equalizing middle ear pressure,” he says softly, his finger lingering at the base of her throat. “That little pop you hear when you’re flying, when your hearing clears - that’s your Eustachian tubes opening.”
“I see,” she nods.
“It’s also been speculated that Eustachian tube dysfunction plays a role in Exploding Head Syndrome.” He shrugs, returning his hand to his lap. “But that’s only speculation.”
Rose blinks. “Exploding - exploding head?”
The Doctor rolls his eyes. “Not literally.”
Rose snorts. “Well, of course not. Silly me.”
She settles back into her seat again, turning this way and that, finally deciding the Doctor looks considerably more comfortable than any of her other options. Her eyelids droop almost immediately as she leans her head against his shoulder.
“That’s nice,” he says softly after a moment.
“Hmm?” Rose shifts to look at him, but he stops her, leaning his cheek against her head.
“This,” he tells her, pressing a little closer to clarify. “It feels nice.”
Rose smiles into his shoulder. “Yeah.”
This Doctor is all about touch, but most often it’s touch in motion. Scooping her into a victory hug, or grabbing her hand as they walk along or run for their lives. This kind of touch - touch while holding still, when they’re not on the move or about to be - it’s actually quite unusual for them, feels surprisingly intimate. Rose snuggles a little closer, sighing sleepily.
“Can we just…” he lifts his arm, and she can’t help a whine of protest as her head is dislodged from his shoulder.
“Aha,” he says softly as he manages to lift the armrest between them. “That’s a bit more comfortable.” He shifts again, retrieving his coat from where he’d stuffed it beside him, and drapes the makeshift blanket over both of them.
Rose nods in agreement, yawning again. It’s quiet then, and before long, she’s soothed very near unconsciousness by the hum of the plane. The Doctor seems to have relaxed quite a bit now too, his head tipped against hers, his breath slow and steady. Their linked hands rest loosely in the space between the Doctor’s leg and hers, his thumb occasionally smoothing up and down the back of her hand. Rose shifts again, finding an angle of his shoulder that fits her head quite perfectly, contemplating how lovely it would be to continue this sleepy cuddling somewhere significantly softer and decidedly less vertical.
“You’ll wake me if my head explodes?” she asks him sleepily.
The Doctor laughs. “I was under the impression you didn’t like it when I woke you.”
“I think I can make an exception just this once,” she mumbles.
“All right then.” He releases her hand to pat her knee. And then his hand… stays. On her bare knee. His thumb idly stroking back and forth.
It’s nothing, she knows it. But it’s a place he’s never touched her before - or if he has, it’s only been in the context of rather urgent medical care. Quite abruptly, sleep is the last thing on her mind.
Oh honestly, it’s just his hand on her knee. She needs to get a grip. Especially if he plans on softly stroking her knee for the next five hours.
She groans inwardly, reminding herself to breathe in, then out. Tries to concentrate on something, anything but his warm hand on her bare leg. She’s tired enough that she thinks she might actually manage it, but then… something changes.
His thumb pauses its back and forth rhythm, and for a split-second she’s completely conflicted. Then, his palm resting on her thigh, his fingers begin stroking instead. Slowly curling up and down and then brushing side to side, and with her head still on his shoulder, she could swear he’s stopped breathing.
His hand slides up her leg, just a little, just a fraction, and his thumb slips under the fabric of her skirt and stays there, warm against her thigh, his fingers tracing a pattern that feels far more deliberate than before.
She takes in a quiet breath and holds it, tense with anticipation. Another pause, and then his fingers slip to the inside of her thigh, the motion of his hand pushing her short skirt up further and wreaking havoc with the frayed edges of her control. She presses her lips together, trying not to moan. Wonders where the point is, exactly, that he can’t pretend this is unintentional. She can’t tell if they’ve passed it or not and she’s afraid to move even the tiniest bit, almost afraid to breathe.
Is he really doing this to her on an airplane of all places? Does he know he’s doing this at all?
His hand slides up another fraction of an inch, taking her skirt with it, and yes, he’s got to know what he’s doing by now. Heat throbs between her thighs, just spare inches from his fingers, and she takes shallow, even little breaths, trying hard to resist the urge to climb into his lap and snog him senseless.
His fingers brush back and forth, just a little higher with each pass and he must be able to feel how quick her breath is coming, with her pressed against his side the way she is. Then he stops.
“Rose?” His voice is a hesitant whisper in the dim light of the cabin, his fingers a breath away from where she wants them.
She lifts her head from his shoulder, briefly taking in his expression, his eyes dark and uncertain before she’s kissing him. Her hands clutch at his lapels, pulling him closer, and it’s only the bare edge of a moment before he’s kissing her back, his free hand rising to cradle her cheek.
It’s pure bliss; his mouth eager against hers and his long fingers pressing into her bare skin. When she parts her lips and his tongue brushes hers, his fingers dig into her thigh and she’s so very, very grateful for Kjndfgks and teleports and the entire bloody history of aviation.
They break apart at the sound of a throat being cleared and Rose glances up to see a disapproving-looking flight attendant passing them on her way to the back of the plane.
She returns her gaze to the Doctor, who’s looking a bit ruffled, his lips still parted and pink. They regard each other uncertainly for a moment before breaking into semi-silent giggles, Rose turning her face into his shoulder to keep from making too much noise on this plane full of sleeping travellers.
She lifts her head to look at him again once she’s recovered, biting her lip. What now?
“I’m - I’m sorry,” he whispers, and she shakes her head.
“No, don’t be sorry.” She reaches up to brush her thumb across his bottom lip, and he smiles, catching her wrist and pressing a kiss into her palm.
“Maybe sorry is the wrong word. I just - it’s not that I don’t want - I wasn’t really thinking, I suppose,” he whispers apologetically.
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Think?”
“Yeah,” she breathes.
“You may have a point.” His gaze drifts to her mouth and the way he leans closer is more like falling, almost like he can’t help it. There’s a pause as his nose brushes against hers, his breath warm on her lips. Then he tilts his head and closes the distance. It’s softer this time, the press of his lips gentle against hers. He breaks the kiss after a long moment with a little satisfied noise, kissing her once on the nose before leaning his forehead against hers. “That’s very, very nice,” he murmurs, his eyes closed.
Rose grins, ducking her head for one more kiss. “Only two ‘verys’?”
“No, there were more.”
She breathes a laugh. “There were?”
“Oh yes. It’s just that I got distracted thinking of your mouth and I forgot to say.”
The Doctor doesn’t say another word, seemingly content with this closeness, and after a long moment Rose begins to drift again, thinks she might just fall asleep after all.
“You have lovely, soft skin,” he whispers suddenly.
“Hmm?” She opens her eyes and leans back a bit to find him watching her in a dreamy sort of way.
“Your... um. Your legs. They’re lovely and soft,” he finishes, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Oh. Thanks,” she says awkwardly.
They gaze at each other for another moment, the Doctor looking more unsure than she’s ever seen him. Somehow it only makes her bolder.
“You know,” she points out, “your hand is still on my leg.”
It is. It had shifted a bit when they moved away from each other earlier, but it’s still decidedly halfway up her thigh, and since he hasn’t shown any inclination to move it elsewhere, it bears mentioning.
“Yes, I had noticed that, actually.” He watches her for another long moment, his eyes darting back and forth between hers.
“You know, it’s rather an interesting phenomenon,” he finally whispers.
“It is?”
“Yes.”
She blinks. “You - you mean your hand on my leg?”
He nods. “In that - well, I mean…” he pauses, swallowing. “It turns out that, once my hand is on your leg - or possibly once your leg is under my hand, I haven’t worked out the specifics - I find it quite difficult to think of anything besides my hand on your leg.”
She feels a grin tug at the corners of her mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Except possibly for two related thoughts - questions, really. The first being why I’ve never put my hand on your leg before, the second being why I shouldn’t have my hand on your leg most of the time in the future.”
“Well, it would make running difficult.”
“You see, that’s a very good point. And one I hadn’t considered. Seeing as how I’m having a very difficult time thinking of anything else.”
They gaze at each other in silence. The Doctor’s eyes are wide and dark, his hand motionless on her thigh, and Rose can’t help but feel that he’s waiting for her.
“I don’t mind,” she whispers, feeling rather ridiculous. “You know. About your hand.”
“No?”
“No.”
They’ve been dancing around this or something like it for so long now, it’s little wonder neither of them knows quite how to make a move when they actually come right down to it. She’s quite sure that if they were anywhere but here, effectively sequestered together for five more hours, he’d have already bounced away, Tigger-like, attempting to distract them both with another topic or a new destination.
“Is there…” the Doctor trails off, looking a bit lost.
“Doctor?”
“Rose, is there anything else you… wouldn’t mind?”
She blinks at him, taking a moment to wrap her head around the convoluted query. Then she laughs. “I can’t think of anything I’d mind, actually.” Heat floods her cheeks at the admission.
His eyebrows rise. “No?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Well, then.”
“Yeah.”
He glances surreptitiously around them. The passengers ahead of them and across the aisle appear to be largely unconscious, one of them actually snoring with impressive volume, and he turns back to her.
“In that case, may I tell you another thought I’ve had?” His eyes burn into hers, and his thumb tentatively rubs back and forth, sending sparks of pleasure to the throbbing pulse between her thighs.
She swallows. “Okay.”
“I… I want to touch you,” he whispers, so softly she sees it on his lips more than hears it, and all she can do is nod. Apparently it doesn’t take much for him to divest her of her powers of speech; she’d always suspected as much.
His hand is stroking again, more sure now, fingers drawing lazy circles against the inside of her thigh, and her eyes fall shut at the feel of it.
She feels him lean closer suddenly, his face pressing into her hair and his breath brushing her skin. “I want to watch you come apart,” he whispers in a breathless rush, stroking just a bit higher, just high enough that she can’t help arching her hips, aching for more. “I want to stroke you and tease you until you can’t bear it anymore.”
Rose bites back a whimper. It’s such a bizarre combination of disbelief and arousal she’s feeling. Though she’s wide awake now, she’s well aware she’s been up for more than twenty-four hours - maybe this is all just a crazy dream.
His voice is barely a whisper now, his lips at her ear. “I want to hold you while I push you over the edge.” He pauses, his breath coming quick against her skin, and Rose holds her own breath in anticipation.
“Unless you don’t want me to,” he adds, pulling back a bit, suddenly sounding unsure again, and Rose thinks she would laugh if she wasn’t so dizzy with wanting him. He means it, though, wide eyes searching hers.
Her mind is already so muddled with desire that she can barely remember how to respond, but she manages a choked sound that she means to be affirmative and he immediately looks relieved, leaning in to press his lips to hers. “Would have been an awfully awkward five hours if you’d said no,” he whispers against her mouth, and she lets out a breathless laugh.
His fingers trace a warm line up the inside of her thigh and her lips falter against his. Another little shift of his hand and his thumb softly strokes between her legs, up and down, grazing lightly over her clit, brushing against her labia. She bites her lip hard, trying to keep quiet.
“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor murmurs, a wicked grin on his face, “you’re not wearing any knickers. I am appalled.”
Cheeky. He’s already well aware of the details of her undergarment situation, having watched her, rather wide-eyed, as she discreetly shimmied out of them on the Kjndfgk ship, the little scrap of white cotton the final finishing touch on their jury-rigged contraption to disable the ship’s power supply.
“Bit rich coming from the bloke with his hand up my skirt,” she manages, poking him with her elbow.
“Touché.”
Rose swallows a gasp as his thumb traces the same path again, feather-light, just barely slipping between her labia as he strokes downward.
“Bit of an awkward angle,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. He reaches across with his other hand instead, making sure to keep the coat tucked around them, and she stifles a gasp as his fingers find her again.
He readjusts his hand, fingertips teasing at her entrance, delicate little touches, dipping and sliding. She’s so wet it’s almost embarrassing. He doesn’t appear to mind, though, his eyes falling shut as he exhales an oh when he slides a finger inside.
The look on his face is bliss and wonder, and she can’t bear not to be kissing him. Her mouth is clumsy against his; she’s barely got the coordination left for kissing. But he slows her down, his kisses just as delicate as the motion of his fingers. First little brushing presses of his lips, then his tongue stroking at her lower lip to the same rhythm he gently fucks her with his finger until she’s clenching her hands in the fabric of her skirt desperately trying to keep still.
When his thumb slides up again to circle her clit, it takes her by surprise, and she nearly cries out, her entire body at his mercy. She buries her face in his neck, wondering how she’s going to hold on. She’s so close already, doesn’t want him to stop for anything, but…
His thumb draws another slick little circle just there and she grabs his wrist to stop him.
“Wait, just - give me a second,” she whispers in a rush.
He nods, kissing her again, his mouth warm and lingering as she tries to catch her breath. His hand is still caught snugly between her thighs, but he stops the motion of his fingers, just resting them against her as she feels herself grow even slicker. After a long moment he pulls away from the kiss, rests his forehead against hers. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” she breathes.
“Slower?”
“Okay.”
His fingers slip against her again, the lightest touch grazing her clit and then sliding lower, slow, slow, until it feels as if every nerve in her body is singing with anticipation. He dips a fingertip inside and she takes in a shaky breath, tries to let it out just as slowly. His fingers follow the same path again, achingly slow, and though he’s true to his word, it’s only making her come apart more quickly.
“Turn towards me a little?” His voice sounds less than steady, and her mind is suddenly filled with a flurry of images. She imagines returning the favour, slowly stroking him under his coat, watching his face as he struggles not to make a sound. It’s too much, makes her dizzy just thinking about it.
She shifts her body towards him, their knees bumping. The angle serves to hide her face even further from anyone who might be walking by. If anyone did happen to glance their way, she doesn’t think they’d look like anything more than a couple enjoying a particularly close cuddle. She hopes. If she can keep quiet, they might just manage this.
His fingers stroke and tease, and his thumb traces slow, delicate circles around that sensitive little bundle of nerves, again and again and again until she can barely remember how to breathe, her fingers gripping the seat under her and her hips straining towards him.
“Spread your legs a bit?” he whispers. She complies so quickly she’s a bit embarrassed, even given her current situation: sitting on a red-eye flight to New York City with the Doctor’s hand up her skirt.
“That’s better. You okay?”
She nods tightly. He slips two fingers inside, deeper at this angle, and her legs begin to tremble with the effort of holding back. She’s nearly panting now, teetering on the edge, trying desperately not to make a sound, and oh, she needs him harder, faster, but if he touches her the way she wants him to, surely someone will notice what they’re up to.
He keeps up his achingly slow pace, his fingers sliding and his thumb stroking until she thinks she might actually spontaneously combust. He leans closer to murmur into her ear, even his breath against her skin sending a new surge of heat through her. “You’re very close, aren’t you?” he asks and she nods desperately, every tiny movement of his hand taking her higher. Her whole body is shaking against his, and she swears she can hear blood rushing in her ears, wonders how on earth she’s going to stay still and quiet when her orgasm hits.
“Rose, please,” he whispers, and that does it. She buries her face in his neck, his free hand pressing into her thigh to keep her hips from jerking. His fingers continue their soft, wet little touches between her legs, and she presses harder against him, gasps against his skin, desperately trying to keep quiet as the waves of her orgasm crash over her.
The last tremors shake her body and she fumbles for his wrist, shoving his hand away, still trying to get enough air into her lungs. She’s collapsed against him, sweaty and spent, her chest heaving, barely even aware of his hand stroking her hair, slowly bringing her back down.
“Okay?” he murmurs in her ear after a long silence.
She can’t help but smile at his hesitant tone, but she thinks what he’s really asking is if they’re okay. If they’ve just made a mess of something that means so much to both of them. She pulls back to look him in the eye. “That was a little more than okay,” she whispers and he smiles.
“That was beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing damp strands of hair back from her face.
She leans in to kiss him, does it properly now that she’s not distracted by his wandering hands, gently sucking his lower lip into her mouth. He makes a soft, needy little sound and she smiles, snaking her hand into his lap. She presses her palm against the bulge in his trousers and his lips stumble against hers. Just a light stroke of her fingers and he gasps, his hand closing over her wrist.
“Best not,” he whispers.
“No?”
“No, at least… well, not right now.”
She grins. “When?”
“Later? I mean, if you still want to--”
“I’ll still want to,” she interrupts.
He smiles. “It’s just that… well, for one thing, I don’t think I’d have any hope of keeping as quiet as you did. And this body - it’s still rather new. I don’t know how it reacts... well, I mean I don’t know how it reacts with…” he trails off looking a bit embarrassed.
Rose’s eyebrows rise. “With what?”
“With... company,” he whispers, his ears a bit pink.
Rose giggles. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
“And d’you think... I mean... you’re sure you’ll still want to? Later?” she asks, not quite meeting his eye. Maybe it’s a silly question, but this is the Doctor, after all. She has no difficulty imagining a scenario wherein they never speak of this again.
He cups her cheek, ducks his head to look her in the eye. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
They sit in silence for a moment, grinning rather goofily at each other, this brand new thing hovering in the air between them.
“Well, I’m just going to…” Rose gestures over her shoulder, her cheeks warming.
“What?”
“Erm… just run to the loo,” she finishes.
“Oh! Right, yes, off you go.”
She makes her way back down the aisle a few minutes later, feeling much more comfortable after having cleaned up a little. It’s easy to find her seat, even in the low light among rows of dozing passengers, the Doctor’s hair poking above the seat backs in a reassuringly familiar way. Her quick trip to the loo has given her enough time to worry he might already be regretting this, but those thoughts are quickly dispelled.
He turns to her as she squeezes back into their row, his face breaking into a wide smile, looking so pleased to see her that she might have been gone five months instead of five minutes. He reaches out an arm to her, wraps it around her shoulders as she sits down, and she snuggles into his side.
“Think you can sleep for a bit?” he murmurs into her hair. ”You must be exhausted.”
She turns her head to press a kiss to his neck and he makes a pleased little hum.
“I was under the impression you didn’t like it when I slept.”
He wraps both arms around her, tucks her head under his chin. Squeezes just a bit tighter before answering. “I think I can make an exception just this once.”
Author: nocookiesjustbooks 2nd2ndalto
Character/Pairing: Ten/Rose
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: BBC owns everything, obviously.
Excerpt: You know, it’s rather an interesting phenomenon.
Author's Notes: Thanks very much to unfolded73 for the beta.
“Aeroplane. Aerrrrroooplane,” the Doctor rolls the word around in his mouth as the plane begins to taxi down the runway. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, looking far more pleased than any of their fellow passengers at the prospect of a seven and a half hour flight. He ducks his head to peer out the tiny window into the darkness and then straightens again, his leg jiggling.
“Did you know, Rose,” he begins, jostling her with his shoulder when she doesn’t turn to him immediately, “that the word ‘aeroplane’ has its root in Greek? Aer, which means air, of course, and planos, which means ‘wandering’ - well, it also means, ‘flat’, but I prefer ‘wandering’. Wandering through the air, isn’t that brilliant?”
Rose smiles mildly, pulling her seatbelt snug around her hips. “Mmm, brilliant,” she agrees.
“Rose, it’s been ages and ages since I’ve been on a proper commercial airliner - the last time I flew they had the most fantastic little packages of nuts….” He continues, expounding on the ingenuity of airline food, while Rose’s attention is diverted by the flight attendant slowly patrolling the aisle, admonishing those who haven’t safely stowed their carry-on, and directing passengers to fasten their seatbelts.
The pair of them don’t have any carry-on - no luggage at all, actually, which seemed to raise some eyebrows at the ticket counter. Their most recent adventure began with an uneventful landing in New York City and ended with, among other things, a band of defeated Kjndfgks and a one-way teleport to London. They’re now about to leave the tarmac at Heathrow, hours away from being reunited with the TARDIS.
The flight attendant slowly draws nearer, and Rose nudges her seatmate. “Doctor - your seatbelt.”
He doesn’t appear to hear her though, now enthusing over a history of early aviation and his involvement therein (“...and then Orville offered me a job at their bicycle shop, but of course I was very busy saving the universe…”)
“Doctor.”
Failing to attract his attention, she reaches over him, collecting the ends of his seatbelt and securing it around his waist. Her fingers brush his thigh and his spirited monologue comes to an abrupt halt. He blinks at her as she straightens in her seat, looking a bit like a surprised fish, having failed to close his mouth when he’d stopped talking.
“Your erm…” Rose gestures to his lap. “Your seatbelt.”
He gazes at her for a moment, seemingly uncomprehending, then shakes his head. “Right, yes. What was I saying?”
She grins. “You were telling me about your mate Orville.”
“Of course. Champion bicyclist, he was. It’s really quite fascinating - mathematicians - well, mathematicians besides myself - they’ve spent over a century trying to figure out how bicycles can possibly stay upright. It’s quite remarkable when you think about it, rather like an elephant balancing on a ping pong ball…”
The Doctor falls silent again as the safety presentation begins, immediately sitting prim and upright in his seat, the model student. Rose yawns, fishing in the seat pocket for her Hello! magazine, and he swats her hand away, looking ridiculously severe.
She giggles and he pokes her with his elbow, pulling a face. She elbows him back and they stage a brief and not-nearly-silent-enough battle for the armrest, ending when the flight attendant actually pauses in her seat-cushion-as-flotation-device lecture to send a stern look their way.
Safety presentation concluded, the Doctor settles back into his seat and shoots Rose a disarming grin that makes her stomach flutter pleasantly and may or may not lead to her relenting and allowing him to share the tiny armrest.
“So Rose, seven hours and fifteen minutes left - what shall we do?” he asks, looking as if the possibilities are thrillingly endless.
“Well,” she considers, shifting uncomfortably in her stiff little seat, “it’s actually the middle of the night - London time, anyway. I think what we’re meant to do is sleep.”
As if on cue, the cabin lights dim, and the Doctor’s face falls.
“But I’m not sleepy,” he protests. “Besides, Rose, when’s the last time we had seven hours and fifteen minutes to spend together?”
“Doctor we spend all our time together,” she laughs.
“Well, yes, of course, but this is uninterrupted time, Rose. Quality time. One on one time.” He taps her nose. “What do you say?"
The Doctor, as it turns out, has a deck of cards somewhere in the depths of his coat - complete but for all the face cards and two of the fours. He’s adamant in insisting this small deficiency is completely inconsequential, and proceeds to teach Rose a rather ridiculous card game she can neither pronounce the name of nor follow the rules to. That turns out not to matter either, though, as somehow she manages to win five hands in a row, the Doctor finally snatching her cards from her in a mostly put-on fit of pique. He’s more than appeased when their meals arrive and Rose generously shares both her crisps and her banana.
The remains of their meals are cleared away, and Rose glances around the cabin. A few passengers have switched on their reading lights, but most are either dozing or trying to. She’s quite knackered herself, having been up for more hours than she can count.
“Think I might try to catch a kip,” she comments, and the Doctor makes a disparaging noise.
“Rose, sleep is for--”
“Humans?”
“Wellll. Yes.”
“Which I am. Besides, dunno if you remember, but you woke me up at the crack of dawn to go looking for Kjndfgks.”
“Rose, there is no ‘crack of dawn’ on the--”
“Fine, crack of not-dawn.” Rose leans back into her seat, stretching and wiggling in an attempt to find a position conducive to human slumber.
“It was very nearly not-morning,” the Doctor tells her dismissively.
“Mmm.”
“And besides,” he adds softly, “I missed you.”
Rose pauses in her fruitless wiggling, turning to look at him. “You… missed me? While I was sleeping?”
He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the latch on his tray table. “You sleep a lot.”
They’re both silent for a moment, contemplating the seat backs in front of them, and Rose casts her mind back over the myriad times the Doctor’s woken her from a sound slumber long before she was ready for consciousness. Sometimes by engaging in particularly noisy pursuits in the corridor outside her room, sometimes simply bouncing through her door and flicking the lights on. Sometimes, very occasionally, she’s woken to find him lying next to her on top of the covers, a respectable distance between them, regarding her with an inscrutable expression. She promises herself to be less irritable with him in the future on these occasions.
“M’sorry,” she offers eventually, laying her hand over his on the armrest.
They stay like that for a long moment, then he shifts his hand, carefully twining his fingers with hers.
“How are your Eustachian tubes?”
“My… what?”
“Your Eustachian tubes, Rose. They connect your middle ear to your pharynx.” He reaches out a finger to trace a light path from her ear to the side of her nose, down to her throat and she giggles in surprise, trying not to let her eyes fall shut at his delicate touch.
“Excellent for equalizing middle ear pressure,” he says softly, his finger lingering at the base of her throat. “That little pop you hear when you’re flying, when your hearing clears - that’s your Eustachian tubes opening.”
“I see,” she nods.
“It’s also been speculated that Eustachian tube dysfunction plays a role in Exploding Head Syndrome.” He shrugs, returning his hand to his lap. “But that’s only speculation.”
Rose blinks. “Exploding - exploding head?”
The Doctor rolls his eyes. “Not literally.”
Rose snorts. “Well, of course not. Silly me.”
She settles back into her seat again, turning this way and that, finally deciding the Doctor looks considerably more comfortable than any of her other options. Her eyelids droop almost immediately as she leans her head against his shoulder.
“That’s nice,” he says softly after a moment.
“Hmm?” Rose shifts to look at him, but he stops her, leaning his cheek against her head.
“This,” he tells her, pressing a little closer to clarify. “It feels nice.”
Rose smiles into his shoulder. “Yeah.”
This Doctor is all about touch, but most often it’s touch in motion. Scooping her into a victory hug, or grabbing her hand as they walk along or run for their lives. This kind of touch - touch while holding still, when they’re not on the move or about to be - it’s actually quite unusual for them, feels surprisingly intimate. Rose snuggles a little closer, sighing sleepily.
“Can we just…” he lifts his arm, and she can’t help a whine of protest as her head is dislodged from his shoulder.
“Aha,” he says softly as he manages to lift the armrest between them. “That’s a bit more comfortable.” He shifts again, retrieving his coat from where he’d stuffed it beside him, and drapes the makeshift blanket over both of them.
Rose nods in agreement, yawning again. It’s quiet then, and before long, she’s soothed very near unconsciousness by the hum of the plane. The Doctor seems to have relaxed quite a bit now too, his head tipped against hers, his breath slow and steady. Their linked hands rest loosely in the space between the Doctor’s leg and hers, his thumb occasionally smoothing up and down the back of her hand. Rose shifts again, finding an angle of his shoulder that fits her head quite perfectly, contemplating how lovely it would be to continue this sleepy cuddling somewhere significantly softer and decidedly less vertical.
“You’ll wake me if my head explodes?” she asks him sleepily.
The Doctor laughs. “I was under the impression you didn’t like it when I woke you.”
“I think I can make an exception just this once,” she mumbles.
“All right then.” He releases her hand to pat her knee. And then his hand… stays. On her bare knee. His thumb idly stroking back and forth.
It’s nothing, she knows it. But it’s a place he’s never touched her before - or if he has, it’s only been in the context of rather urgent medical care. Quite abruptly, sleep is the last thing on her mind.
Oh honestly, it’s just his hand on her knee. She needs to get a grip. Especially if he plans on softly stroking her knee for the next five hours.
She groans inwardly, reminding herself to breathe in, then out. Tries to concentrate on something, anything but his warm hand on her bare leg. She’s tired enough that she thinks she might actually manage it, but then… something changes.
His thumb pauses its back and forth rhythm, and for a split-second she’s completely conflicted. Then, his palm resting on her thigh, his fingers begin stroking instead. Slowly curling up and down and then brushing side to side, and with her head still on his shoulder, she could swear he’s stopped breathing.
His hand slides up her leg, just a little, just a fraction, and his thumb slips under the fabric of her skirt and stays there, warm against her thigh, his fingers tracing a pattern that feels far more deliberate than before.
She takes in a quiet breath and holds it, tense with anticipation. Another pause, and then his fingers slip to the inside of her thigh, the motion of his hand pushing her short skirt up further and wreaking havoc with the frayed edges of her control. She presses her lips together, trying not to moan. Wonders where the point is, exactly, that he can’t pretend this is unintentional. She can’t tell if they’ve passed it or not and she’s afraid to move even the tiniest bit, almost afraid to breathe.
Is he really doing this to her on an airplane of all places? Does he know he’s doing this at all?
His hand slides up another fraction of an inch, taking her skirt with it, and yes, he’s got to know what he’s doing by now. Heat throbs between her thighs, just spare inches from his fingers, and she takes shallow, even little breaths, trying hard to resist the urge to climb into his lap and snog him senseless.
His fingers brush back and forth, just a little higher with each pass and he must be able to feel how quick her breath is coming, with her pressed against his side the way she is. Then he stops.
“Rose?” His voice is a hesitant whisper in the dim light of the cabin, his fingers a breath away from where she wants them.
She lifts her head from his shoulder, briefly taking in his expression, his eyes dark and uncertain before she’s kissing him. Her hands clutch at his lapels, pulling him closer, and it’s only the bare edge of a moment before he’s kissing her back, his free hand rising to cradle her cheek.
It’s pure bliss; his mouth eager against hers and his long fingers pressing into her bare skin. When she parts her lips and his tongue brushes hers, his fingers dig into her thigh and she’s so very, very grateful for Kjndfgks and teleports and the entire bloody history of aviation.
They break apart at the sound of a throat being cleared and Rose glances up to see a disapproving-looking flight attendant passing them on her way to the back of the plane.
She returns her gaze to the Doctor, who’s looking a bit ruffled, his lips still parted and pink. They regard each other uncertainly for a moment before breaking into semi-silent giggles, Rose turning her face into his shoulder to keep from making too much noise on this plane full of sleeping travellers.
She lifts her head to look at him again once she’s recovered, biting her lip. What now?
“I’m - I’m sorry,” he whispers, and she shakes her head.
“No, don’t be sorry.” She reaches up to brush her thumb across his bottom lip, and he smiles, catching her wrist and pressing a kiss into her palm.
“Maybe sorry is the wrong word. I just - it’s not that I don’t want - I wasn’t really thinking, I suppose,” he whispers apologetically.
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Think?”
“Yeah,” she breathes.
“You may have a point.” His gaze drifts to her mouth and the way he leans closer is more like falling, almost like he can’t help it. There’s a pause as his nose brushes against hers, his breath warm on her lips. Then he tilts his head and closes the distance. It’s softer this time, the press of his lips gentle against hers. He breaks the kiss after a long moment with a little satisfied noise, kissing her once on the nose before leaning his forehead against hers. “That’s very, very nice,” he murmurs, his eyes closed.
Rose grins, ducking her head for one more kiss. “Only two ‘verys’?”
“No, there were more.”
She breathes a laugh. “There were?”
“Oh yes. It’s just that I got distracted thinking of your mouth and I forgot to say.”
The Doctor doesn’t say another word, seemingly content with this closeness, and after a long moment Rose begins to drift again, thinks she might just fall asleep after all.
“You have lovely, soft skin,” he whispers suddenly.
“Hmm?” She opens her eyes and leans back a bit to find him watching her in a dreamy sort of way.
“Your... um. Your legs. They’re lovely and soft,” he finishes, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Oh. Thanks,” she says awkwardly.
They gaze at each other for another moment, the Doctor looking more unsure than she’s ever seen him. Somehow it only makes her bolder.
“You know,” she points out, “your hand is still on my leg.”
It is. It had shifted a bit when they moved away from each other earlier, but it’s still decidedly halfway up her thigh, and since he hasn’t shown any inclination to move it elsewhere, it bears mentioning.
“Yes, I had noticed that, actually.” He watches her for another long moment, his eyes darting back and forth between hers.
“You know, it’s rather an interesting phenomenon,” he finally whispers.
“It is?”
“Yes.”
She blinks. “You - you mean your hand on my leg?”
He nods. “In that - well, I mean…” he pauses, swallowing. “It turns out that, once my hand is on your leg - or possibly once your leg is under my hand, I haven’t worked out the specifics - I find it quite difficult to think of anything besides my hand on your leg.”
She feels a grin tug at the corners of her mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Except possibly for two related thoughts - questions, really. The first being why I’ve never put my hand on your leg before, the second being why I shouldn’t have my hand on your leg most of the time in the future.”
“Well, it would make running difficult.”
“You see, that’s a very good point. And one I hadn’t considered. Seeing as how I’m having a very difficult time thinking of anything else.”
They gaze at each other in silence. The Doctor’s eyes are wide and dark, his hand motionless on her thigh, and Rose can’t help but feel that he’s waiting for her.
“I don’t mind,” she whispers, feeling rather ridiculous. “You know. About your hand.”
“No?”
“No.”
They’ve been dancing around this or something like it for so long now, it’s little wonder neither of them knows quite how to make a move when they actually come right down to it. She’s quite sure that if they were anywhere but here, effectively sequestered together for five more hours, he’d have already bounced away, Tigger-like, attempting to distract them both with another topic or a new destination.
“Is there…” the Doctor trails off, looking a bit lost.
“Doctor?”
“Rose, is there anything else you… wouldn’t mind?”
She blinks at him, taking a moment to wrap her head around the convoluted query. Then she laughs. “I can’t think of anything I’d mind, actually.” Heat floods her cheeks at the admission.
His eyebrows rise. “No?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Well, then.”
“Yeah.”
He glances surreptitiously around them. The passengers ahead of them and across the aisle appear to be largely unconscious, one of them actually snoring with impressive volume, and he turns back to her.
“In that case, may I tell you another thought I’ve had?” His eyes burn into hers, and his thumb tentatively rubs back and forth, sending sparks of pleasure to the throbbing pulse between her thighs.
She swallows. “Okay.”
“I… I want to touch you,” he whispers, so softly she sees it on his lips more than hears it, and all she can do is nod. Apparently it doesn’t take much for him to divest her of her powers of speech; she’d always suspected as much.
His hand is stroking again, more sure now, fingers drawing lazy circles against the inside of her thigh, and her eyes fall shut at the feel of it.
She feels him lean closer suddenly, his face pressing into her hair and his breath brushing her skin. “I want to watch you come apart,” he whispers in a breathless rush, stroking just a bit higher, just high enough that she can’t help arching her hips, aching for more. “I want to stroke you and tease you until you can’t bear it anymore.”
Rose bites back a whimper. It’s such a bizarre combination of disbelief and arousal she’s feeling. Though she’s wide awake now, she’s well aware she’s been up for more than twenty-four hours - maybe this is all just a crazy dream.
His voice is barely a whisper now, his lips at her ear. “I want to hold you while I push you over the edge.” He pauses, his breath coming quick against her skin, and Rose holds her own breath in anticipation.
“Unless you don’t want me to,” he adds, pulling back a bit, suddenly sounding unsure again, and Rose thinks she would laugh if she wasn’t so dizzy with wanting him. He means it, though, wide eyes searching hers.
Her mind is already so muddled with desire that she can barely remember how to respond, but she manages a choked sound that she means to be affirmative and he immediately looks relieved, leaning in to press his lips to hers. “Would have been an awfully awkward five hours if you’d said no,” he whispers against her mouth, and she lets out a breathless laugh.
His fingers trace a warm line up the inside of her thigh and her lips falter against his. Another little shift of his hand and his thumb softly strokes between her legs, up and down, grazing lightly over her clit, brushing against her labia. She bites her lip hard, trying to keep quiet.
“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor murmurs, a wicked grin on his face, “you’re not wearing any knickers. I am appalled.”
Cheeky. He’s already well aware of the details of her undergarment situation, having watched her, rather wide-eyed, as she discreetly shimmied out of them on the Kjndfgk ship, the little scrap of white cotton the final finishing touch on their jury-rigged contraption to disable the ship’s power supply.
“Bit rich coming from the bloke with his hand up my skirt,” she manages, poking him with her elbow.
“Touché.”
Rose swallows a gasp as his thumb traces the same path again, feather-light, just barely slipping between her labia as he strokes downward.
“Bit of an awkward angle,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. He reaches across with his other hand instead, making sure to keep the coat tucked around them, and she stifles a gasp as his fingers find her again.
He readjusts his hand, fingertips teasing at her entrance, delicate little touches, dipping and sliding. She’s so wet it’s almost embarrassing. He doesn’t appear to mind, though, his eyes falling shut as he exhales an oh when he slides a finger inside.
The look on his face is bliss and wonder, and she can’t bear not to be kissing him. Her mouth is clumsy against his; she’s barely got the coordination left for kissing. But he slows her down, his kisses just as delicate as the motion of his fingers. First little brushing presses of his lips, then his tongue stroking at her lower lip to the same rhythm he gently fucks her with his finger until she’s clenching her hands in the fabric of her skirt desperately trying to keep still.
When his thumb slides up again to circle her clit, it takes her by surprise, and she nearly cries out, her entire body at his mercy. She buries her face in his neck, wondering how she’s going to hold on. She’s so close already, doesn’t want him to stop for anything, but…
His thumb draws another slick little circle just there and she grabs his wrist to stop him.
“Wait, just - give me a second,” she whispers in a rush.
He nods, kissing her again, his mouth warm and lingering as she tries to catch her breath. His hand is still caught snugly between her thighs, but he stops the motion of his fingers, just resting them against her as she feels herself grow even slicker. After a long moment he pulls away from the kiss, rests his forehead against hers. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” she breathes.
“Slower?”
“Okay.”
His fingers slip against her again, the lightest touch grazing her clit and then sliding lower, slow, slow, until it feels as if every nerve in her body is singing with anticipation. He dips a fingertip inside and she takes in a shaky breath, tries to let it out just as slowly. His fingers follow the same path again, achingly slow, and though he’s true to his word, it’s only making her come apart more quickly.
“Turn towards me a little?” His voice sounds less than steady, and her mind is suddenly filled with a flurry of images. She imagines returning the favour, slowly stroking him under his coat, watching his face as he struggles not to make a sound. It’s too much, makes her dizzy just thinking about it.
She shifts her body towards him, their knees bumping. The angle serves to hide her face even further from anyone who might be walking by. If anyone did happen to glance their way, she doesn’t think they’d look like anything more than a couple enjoying a particularly close cuddle. She hopes. If she can keep quiet, they might just manage this.
His fingers stroke and tease, and his thumb traces slow, delicate circles around that sensitive little bundle of nerves, again and again and again until she can barely remember how to breathe, her fingers gripping the seat under her and her hips straining towards him.
“Spread your legs a bit?” he whispers. She complies so quickly she’s a bit embarrassed, even given her current situation: sitting on a red-eye flight to New York City with the Doctor’s hand up her skirt.
“That’s better. You okay?”
She nods tightly. He slips two fingers inside, deeper at this angle, and her legs begin to tremble with the effort of holding back. She’s nearly panting now, teetering on the edge, trying desperately not to make a sound, and oh, she needs him harder, faster, but if he touches her the way she wants him to, surely someone will notice what they’re up to.
He keeps up his achingly slow pace, his fingers sliding and his thumb stroking until she thinks she might actually spontaneously combust. He leans closer to murmur into her ear, even his breath against her skin sending a new surge of heat through her. “You’re very close, aren’t you?” he asks and she nods desperately, every tiny movement of his hand taking her higher. Her whole body is shaking against his, and she swears she can hear blood rushing in her ears, wonders how on earth she’s going to stay still and quiet when her orgasm hits.
“Rose, please,” he whispers, and that does it. She buries her face in his neck, his free hand pressing into her thigh to keep her hips from jerking. His fingers continue their soft, wet little touches between her legs, and she presses harder against him, gasps against his skin, desperately trying to keep quiet as the waves of her orgasm crash over her.
The last tremors shake her body and she fumbles for his wrist, shoving his hand away, still trying to get enough air into her lungs. She’s collapsed against him, sweaty and spent, her chest heaving, barely even aware of his hand stroking her hair, slowly bringing her back down.
“Okay?” he murmurs in her ear after a long silence.
She can’t help but smile at his hesitant tone, but she thinks what he’s really asking is if they’re okay. If they’ve just made a mess of something that means so much to both of them. She pulls back to look him in the eye. “That was a little more than okay,” she whispers and he smiles.
“That was beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing damp strands of hair back from her face.
She leans in to kiss him, does it properly now that she’s not distracted by his wandering hands, gently sucking his lower lip into her mouth. He makes a soft, needy little sound and she smiles, snaking her hand into his lap. She presses her palm against the bulge in his trousers and his lips stumble against hers. Just a light stroke of her fingers and he gasps, his hand closing over her wrist.
“Best not,” he whispers.
“No?”
“No, at least… well, not right now.”
She grins. “When?”
“Later? I mean, if you still want to--”
“I’ll still want to,” she interrupts.
He smiles. “It’s just that… well, for one thing, I don’t think I’d have any hope of keeping as quiet as you did. And this body - it’s still rather new. I don’t know how it reacts... well, I mean I don’t know how it reacts with…” he trails off looking a bit embarrassed.
Rose’s eyebrows rise. “With what?”
“With... company,” he whispers, his ears a bit pink.
Rose giggles. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
“And d’you think... I mean... you’re sure you’ll still want to? Later?” she asks, not quite meeting his eye. Maybe it’s a silly question, but this is the Doctor, after all. She has no difficulty imagining a scenario wherein they never speak of this again.
He cups her cheek, ducks his head to look her in the eye. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
They sit in silence for a moment, grinning rather goofily at each other, this brand new thing hovering in the air between them.
“Well, I’m just going to…” Rose gestures over her shoulder, her cheeks warming.
“What?”
“Erm… just run to the loo,” she finishes.
“Oh! Right, yes, off you go.”
She makes her way back down the aisle a few minutes later, feeling much more comfortable after having cleaned up a little. It’s easy to find her seat, even in the low light among rows of dozing passengers, the Doctor’s hair poking above the seat backs in a reassuringly familiar way. Her quick trip to the loo has given her enough time to worry he might already be regretting this, but those thoughts are quickly dispelled.
He turns to her as she squeezes back into their row, his face breaking into a wide smile, looking so pleased to see her that she might have been gone five months instead of five minutes. He reaches out an arm to her, wraps it around her shoulders as she sits down, and she snuggles into his side.
“Think you can sleep for a bit?” he murmurs into her hair. ”You must be exhausted.”
She turns her head to press a kiss to his neck and he makes a pleased little hum.
“I was under the impression you didn’t like it when I slept.”
He wraps both arms around her, tucks her head under his chin. Squeezes just a bit tighter before answering. “I think I can make an exception just this once.”