a million minus one; a doctor/rose fic.
a million minus one, ten/rose, pg
He told her there were a million ways to kiss in the universe.
They kissed on the edge of a volcano, with ash in their hair and embers on their clothes, and it was the way his tongue curled in her mouth-and not the simmering rocks beneath her shoes-that made her truly flush with heat, 434 words
He told her there were a million ways to kiss in the universe. Humans weren’t the only beings with lips, or tongues, or teeth that nibbled, and they hadn’t taken out a patent on that expression of affection, he’d said. He’d said a lot of things, and sometimes she ignored him when he was on an especially animated rant liberally sprinkled with techno babble.
But this time she heard him. She remembered those words. She reminded him of those words every chance she got.
When they were on a planet where hot air balloons had replaced autos, she reminded him. And he showed her how to kiss when your feet are hundreds of feet off the ground.
On a planet not unlike Earth, covered in water, he showed her how to kiss underwater without surfacing for breath. Time Lords’ lungs are superior to humans, and she enjoyed the feel of his breath in her chest almost more than his lips against hers.
They kissed on the edge of a volcano, with ash in their hair and embers on their clothes, and it was the way his tongue curled in her mouth-and not the simmering rocks beneath her shoes-that made her truly flush with heat.
There was a pink planet three galaxies over where heterosexual relationships were taboo, and there the Doctor taught her secret kisses in back alleys away from prying eyes, kisses that were rushed and fierce and spiced by the thrill of adrenaline and the fear of being caught.
Over the days, weeks, months they tried them all: butterfly kisses on her cheek late at night when she was curled against him half-asleep after a long movie; Eskimo kisses in Alaska after they saved the tribe’s leader from a particularly angry walrus; innocent married-couple-esque pecks in the supermarket aisles; toe-curling kisses of nearly violent passion as they fell back on the bed in a tangle of limbs and sleeves and wind-blown hair…
Rose tried to keep count, tried to remember every one, to see if the Doctor had been exaggerating. She wrote them down every night, pinned them to the paper of her journal.
Good morning kisses, good night kisses, good job kisses, good luck kisses. Kisses at the breakfast table over waffles, and at parties, and while dancing. French kisses, Gallifrean kisses, 51st century kisses. Reunion kisses and I’m-so-glad-you’re-safe kisses and it’s-all-going-to-be-okay kisses.
And the Doctor was right. A million kinds of kisses scattered across all of space and time. Well, a million minus one. There was one kiss they never had the chance to try.
The goodbye kiss.
He told her there were a million ways to kiss in the universe.
They kissed on the edge of a volcano, with ash in their hair and embers on their clothes, and it was the way his tongue curled in her mouth-and not the simmering rocks beneath her shoes-that made her truly flush with heat, 434 words
He told her there were a million ways to kiss in the universe. Humans weren’t the only beings with lips, or tongues, or teeth that nibbled, and they hadn’t taken out a patent on that expression of affection, he’d said. He’d said a lot of things, and sometimes she ignored him when he was on an especially animated rant liberally sprinkled with techno babble.
But this time she heard him. She remembered those words. She reminded him of those words every chance she got.
When they were on a planet where hot air balloons had replaced autos, she reminded him. And he showed her how to kiss when your feet are hundreds of feet off the ground.
On a planet not unlike Earth, covered in water, he showed her how to kiss underwater without surfacing for breath. Time Lords’ lungs are superior to humans, and she enjoyed the feel of his breath in her chest almost more than his lips against hers.
They kissed on the edge of a volcano, with ash in their hair and embers on their clothes, and it was the way his tongue curled in her mouth-and not the simmering rocks beneath her shoes-that made her truly flush with heat.
There was a pink planet three galaxies over where heterosexual relationships were taboo, and there the Doctor taught her secret kisses in back alleys away from prying eyes, kisses that were rushed and fierce and spiced by the thrill of adrenaline and the fear of being caught.
Over the days, weeks, months they tried them all: butterfly kisses on her cheek late at night when she was curled against him half-asleep after a long movie; Eskimo kisses in Alaska after they saved the tribe’s leader from a particularly angry walrus; innocent married-couple-esque pecks in the supermarket aisles; toe-curling kisses of nearly violent passion as they fell back on the bed in a tangle of limbs and sleeves and wind-blown hair…
Rose tried to keep count, tried to remember every one, to see if the Doctor had been exaggerating. She wrote them down every night, pinned them to the paper of her journal.
Good morning kisses, good night kisses, good job kisses, good luck kisses. Kisses at the breakfast table over waffles, and at parties, and while dancing. French kisses, Gallifrean kisses, 51st century kisses. Reunion kisses and I’m-so-glad-you’re-safe kisses and it’s-all-going-to-be-okay kisses.
And the Doctor was right. A million kinds of kisses scattered across all of space and time. Well, a million minus one. There was one kiss they never had the chance to try.
The goodbye kiss.