La Primavera

It was another pleasure planet. And she thought this was starting to get ridiculous. She didn't think it was the TARDIS trying to irritate him, because he was never annoyed. He just stepped outside and nodded in satisfaction and turned, hand out, seeking hers. And then launched into a lecture about the planet.

And she was worried. Worried because he had begun to kiss her that day in the library. She could not have said that he did kiss her. He had stopped before it had really gone anywhere. Stopped and left and she had not gone after him, although she had wanted to. She had wanted to demand to know just what he was on about, lately, but she hadn't because she was worried. Worried about him. Worried about them, the pair of them, the-Doctor-&-Rose, and what it would mean if she told him that what she resented more than his beginning to kiss her was the fact that he hadn't properly finished it. It was that silly asexuality of his, she thought. He had no idea that he couldn't do things like that without, well, stirring her up a bit. And it was worse because of the way he looked at her. She found herself, sometimes, watching him watch her, wondering if he would lean in and kiss her again. She thought sometimes he was on the verge of it, that he was watching her mouth, licking his lips, his eyes dark and glittery in a way that, try as she might, she could think of no interpretation for other than that he wanted her.

But worse than the times when he looked like he wanted her were the times when he looked at her in quite a different way. Sometimes, after she had made him laugh, or after he had made her laugh, there would be a moment of utter stillness from him, a radiation of such deep contentment that she always had to check her impulse to tuck her head against him in a cuddle. They weren't dating, she had to remind herself. Except that his eyes, in those moments, would be so deep and bottomless, and it almost looked like…Well, it had to be her overactive imagination, because it almost looked like he was wishing he could have spent the previous 900 years with her. It almost looked like—she could convince herself in those moments that—he was actually in love with her. In those moments, it felt very much to her like they were dating.

Except that he was him. And this wasn't at all like him. All of the lolling about on pleasure planets like this.

Today, this was a planet stuck in an eternal spring. Well, at this present time in its history. Sort of like the long Ice Age Earth had been stuck in, he explained as she watched him, astonished, spread his coat under a tree for her as if he were a truly domesticated gentleman. The tree itself had blossoms like wisps of cotton. When the warm breeze sighed by (and it made a noise like a sigh as it came and went), the blossoms would unravel and spin out in long, delicate threads. She watched, fascinated, for a while, before the Doctor pulled out of those bigger-on-the-inside pockets her book. Emma. His suggestion. Try a romance novel by the original romance novel writer, he'd said, casually, dropping it on the TARDIS console for her one day.

"You left it inside," he said. "But I knew it'd be calm and quiet here, and I thought you might want to finish it."

"Did you bring anything to read?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. I may doze a bit." And he stretched out on the coat, hands stacked under his head, as if that was that.

Doze a bit? She looked at him, still worrying.

He felt her gaze, eventually, opening his eyes. "What?"

"If there were something wrong with you," she said, anxiously, "you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

His hand sought hers, comfortingly, and his eyes stayed steadily on hers. "If there were something wrong with me, I'd tell you immediately."

She believed him. And she resisted the crazy, sudden, inappropriate, irritating impulse to lean down and kiss him. Instead, she settled down to read, sprawling on her stomach next to him while his breaths settled into the evenness of a nap.

She turned the pages of Emma, warm and relaxed and content, shifting position every once in a while. She had only a few pages of the book left, when something landed in her hair. She waved at it, absently, thinking it was one of the blossoms, but whatever it was brushed lightly over her hair, coaxed it back and away from her face. She froze. His hand. She'd turned her back on him, during the course of her reading, could no longer see him and hadn't sensed him waking up.

"What are you doing?" she asked, tensely. She couldn't help it. He couldn't…stroke her like that.

"Examining your roots," came the answer.

Oh, the essence of romance, he was. She rolled her eyes and went back to her book. Fine. Let him examine her roots. He had no idea that when his hands slid through her hair like that, brushing like that, so, so gently…when his thumb rubbed behind her ear just that way…

"Stop that," she murmured, thinking she could have made that request sound a bit firmer.

"Stop what?"

Oblivious, she thought. He was so bloody oblivious. She gritted her teeth and went back to her book.

"Have you finished the book yet?"

"No. I can't. You keep distracting me."

"I'm not doing anything," he protested. And skimmed a fingertip down the curve of her neck.

She jumped, squeaking. "See, you're—"

"Rose," he whispered, against her ear. "Tell me what Emma is about." And then he tugged on her earlobe with his teeth.

Her eyes closed, of their own volition. "Oh," she sighed. "Stop. You don't know what you're doing."

"I think it's time—" His tongue slid over the pulse in her neck. "For you to consider—" He actually bit at her collarbone, hard enough, she realized in shock, to leave a mark. "The possibility—" He planted a kiss on the back of her neck, underneath her hair, as he flattened a hand over her abdomen. "However remote—" He nuzzled behind her ear, as his hand found its way under her shirt, against her skin. She quivered in reaction. "That I know exactly what I'm doing." His breath skimmed over her cheekbone. "Hmm?"

When had she dropped the book? When had she turned into him? She could remember doing none of it. Except that he shifted, just a bit, and just like that was on top of her. And felt wonderful. And right. And how had they not done this before? And maybe he did know exactly what he was doing.

"Rose," he said, kissing one of her closed eyelids. "Tell me what Emma is about." He kissed the other eyelid, with a tenderness that made her chest hurt.

Why was he so obsessed with the bloody book? "Doctor, what does it matter what the book is about?" she said, irritated, fastening her hands in his hair and trying to bring his lips down to hers.

"Humour me," he replied, detaching her hands from his hair, intertwining them with his, one pairing on either side of her head. "Tell me about the book, and I'll snog you good and properly."

Good deal, she thought, shifting a bit under him, as she tied to concentrate. "It's about a woman. Named Emma."

"Why, that's very good, Rose," he said, and she could hear the amusement dripping off his words.

Smug bastard, she thought, and arched into him, very suddenly, pleased when she heard his breath catch, when he cleared his throat before he spoke again. "What else about Emma?"

She wasn't buying the casual act. He wanted her. She didn't know when this sudden change had happened, but it was quite clear as day. She could feel it, she could hear it. And she didn't bloody care what it meant. If he was ill, or going mad, or something, she'd deal with it later. If she had her way, much, much, much later. "Emma," she said. "She…" She shifted under him again, pretending to be innocent, pretending not to hear the breath he hissed in. "Well, she's a matchmaker, yeah? A bit of a trouble-maker. A bit like you."

"I am not playing the part of 'Emma' in Emma," he rasped out, his composure quite plainly in shreds. The Doctor, she thought, was clearly not oblivious to what was going on. "Tell me more about Emma. Who does she end up with at the end of the book?"

Damn Time Lord stubbornness, she thought. Why did he want to keep talking? "Well, she ends up with Knightley, doesn't she? She ends up with—" Oh, went her brain, as things started clicking into place, phrases colliding wildly in her head. Locking themselves in a room for hours while they engaged in sexual intercourse. Reading love poetry. Saying, Why don't you read Emma Saying, just now, I am not playing the part of 'Emma' That strange emphasis on Emma. Why? What part was he playing? Maybe, after all, he wasn't ill, or oblivious. Maybe he meant to be having this effect on her. "She ends up with her best friend," Rose realized, breathlessly, and the breathlessness had only a little to do with the fact that she still had a heavy and aroused Time Lord sprawled on top of her.

There was a moment of aching silence between them. "Rose," he said, so, so gently, so, so tenderly, that she could have wept. "Open your eyes and look at me."

She did. She had not opened her eyes since he had begun to seduce her. Which, she realized now, was exactly what he had done. He was very close to her. She could see the chaotic, independent paths of each strand of his hair, could see the differing shades of brown that swirled together in his irises. Her mouth opened in a little "o" of shock. He couldn't possibly mean what he was implying.

He smiled, just one edge of his mouth tipping up at her. "Rose Tyler," he said.

She couldn't breathe. She stared up at him.

"I am, most definitely, not ill. I am, however—and this is by far the silliest thing I've ever said in my very long existence but I tried the direct route with you and it didn't quite work and this is just what I'm willing to do for you, but—I am, in a way, sort of…your Knightley." He looked embarrassed to even be saying it.

Which made it mean so much more. She swallowed. "Are you sayin' I'm Emma?"

"Wellllll, you do have rather a knack for trouble."

"Doctor," she said.

"What?"

"Let go of my hands."

He hesitated a second before doing so, uncertain what she intended to do. But what she did was ruffle them into his hair. "D'you mean this?" she asked.

"I mean it."

"You're really not ill?"

"You know, Rose," he said, sounding a bit irritated, "it hurts even my ego to be told that you interpreted my seductive wiles as an illness."

"I don't know, this doesn't seem like you. Mind you, I'm not complaining, but you may have come down with some strange sort of…alien infection, with all sorts of weird medicines and treatments that I'm going to have to administer to you, yeah?"

He smiled at her again, kissed the tip of her nose. "That makes catching an alien infection sound almost fun. But no, there's no alien infection. Or, if there is, it's a lovely one, and we won't be trying to cure me of it."

"As long as it doesn't kill you. I've had two good versions of you. I don't fancy taking my chances on a third. I like the one I've got now."

"Well, that's excellent, then. But I'm fine. Not sick at all." He dipped his head down, brushed his lips very lightly over hers. "This is me," he whispered. "I may have taken a long time being honest about it, but…This is very much me."

She surprised him by grinning. "My Knightley. Of sorts. Didn't you promise to snog me good and properly?"

He grinned back. "Why, yes. I did."