Title: Cutting the Tension
Summary: The Doctor gets a haircut.
Author's Notes: Sort of a little bit inspired by a similar scene in Cassandra Claire's 'Draco Veritas' fic (of the Harry Potter fandom).
"You're imagining it," the Doctor declared firmly.
Rose sighed. "I'm not. Look!" She angled the mirror a different way. "See?"
The Doctor's fingers pulled at the tufts of hair lying at the nape of his neck. "Nope."
"Well, just because you refuse to see it doesn't mean it's not there." She put the mirror down. "And I'm telling you now, I don't care what anyone says – mullets aren't a good look no matter when or where you are."
He scowled at her. "It's not a bloody mullet!"
Rose waved a pair of silver scissors at him. "It won't be if you'll just let me…"
"No." He began to walk away before she could start wheedling.
"You'll be sorry!" Rose called after him.
Only, as it turned out, he wasn't in the least bit sorry. Not later, anyway.
That evening he and Rose were in one of the warmer rooms of the TARDIS – this one had a roaring fire, soft, toe-scrunching carpet, and a squashy sofa.
They were sitting on this sofa, taking in the warmth of the fire and talking softly, when Rose produced the scissors again. The Doctor was feeling far too tired and pleasantly comfortable to try to make a quick escape, but he at least put up a token fight. "Come on, Rose, it looks fine as it is."
But Rose was already kneeling on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her, and gently but firmly turning the Doctor's upper body to the side.
Then he felt her nimble fingers on his neck, and the cold metal of the scissors as she began snipping away at his hair.
He felt goosebumps rise on his arms. He couldn't suppress a little shiver, and the scissors stilled abruptly. "You OK?"
"Yeah," he said, half aware that there was an odd tightness about his voice. "Carry on." His lethargy seemed to be fading; his mind began to become more alert, and his sense of everything in the room heightened – the crackling of the fire, the dimpled fabric of the sofa, the flickering golden light on the walls, the smell of Rose's perfume…
He felt her shift on the sofa. One of her knees pressed against his lower back slightly. He became ever more aware of her breathing; she started snipping away again, and the little cut hairs fell down the back of his t-shirt, tickling him.
His mouth was bone dry.
"Rose…" he croaked.
"Ssh," she said. "Nearly finished now. It looks tons better."
She finished snipping, and brushed the hairs away. He tensed, ready to stand up and get out as soon as possible, because he'd never felt this wired, and worse, he'd never felt so aware of Rose's presence, her body so close to his, or of the fact that she was a woman…
She blew on the back of his neck and he jerked in his seat. He heard her laugh lightly behind him. "Calm down. You've still got hairs sticking to your skin."
He couldn't care less about the hairs; he turned around and looked at her. She was still kneeling on the sofa, her face level with his, clutching those thin silver scissors, the firelight reflected in her eyes.
He reached out and grasped her slender wrist with one hand; his other hand curved round the back of her neck and pulled her lips towards his. As he kissed her, a thousand tiny fires broke out at the tips of his nerves. He leaned into her and grinned inwardly as he felt her kiss him back, her free hand splayed across his chest…
A minute later the scissors dropped silently to the floor, forgotten.