Title: "It Goes Without Saying"
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating/Classification: mild adult content, Ninth Doctor/Rose, angst, ficlet.
Disclaimer: The BBC and Russell T. Davies own all. I'm just borrowing.
Summary: A tag to S1's "Father's Day." This is just a part of them. 400 words.
Note: Forgive me for being American. Any horribly un-British linguistic snafus are purely mine.
"I thought you said I wasn't your boyfriend?" he teases, when she's had herself a good cry over her dad and is leaning, quiet-like, against his chest as he pats her hair and says awkward human things like "there, there" and "that's a love."
"You're not." Her chuckle is watery and her nose is charmingly red from her grief. "You're my Doctor."
He doesn't miss the stress on "my." How could he? When she's his Rose? It's just a part of speech…English…the way it works…and just a part of them. "Fixin' all your ills, am I?"
"Mhmm. Bandaging my scrapes. Kissing my hurts. Giving me a lollipop afterwards."
And there's her smile. The lines between her eyebrows disappearing. The dimple in her soft cheek taking their place. He inhales it, that tiny curve. He should know better. That's what he tells himself every day. Every hour. He's done this a hundred times, a million times, and he'll do it all again.
He falls in love with them. He always does. Their spark. Their fragility. Their stupidity. Their sheer impermanence. And the way they open for him and let him inside.
He lifts her up, easily, against the console, so the buttons and levers press into her back. They'll leave impressions, marks, memories, and perhaps the TARDIS will tape the sound of her breathing…harsh and ragged as he comes into her. For posterity. For all time. For after she's long gone, when he's still here and he can't quite recall how she shaped her beautiful mouth around the word "Doctor."
"You said you wouldn't leave me…but you did…" she accuses, curving one leg round his hip. Her fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket, too slick against the leather, but she keeps holding on. As tight as she can manage for now. "You *died*."
"I know." He kisses her forehead with faintly chapped lips, with a frown, as he memorizes the tang of her sweat. "I lied, Rose…didn't want to…but I lied to you."
"Tell me you're sorry." She says it just like he did at the church. Demands it. Gasping it against his throat and he wonders what *she* tastes. If Earth is salt and Gallifrey is paprika. No, he doesn't have to wonder. He knows.
And if she knows he's still lying to her, she doesn't let on.
They never do.
April 29, 2006.