Remember that time I told you I wasn't sure when I was going to post something new...? Well, surprise!

Again, meant to be fluffy. This may have been more successful than my last attempt, though. Either way, please enjoy!

Disclaimer: Seriously, though, if I owned DW, do you really think Moffat would still be writing? I think not.

They were ice skating in the city when things went pear shaped.

They raced around the rink, blurs against the slow moving masses around them, laughing as they skilfully manoeuvred around small children and awkward teenage couples. She pulled ahead when they took different routes to avoid an elderly couple with what looked to be their grand-kids. From there, she gained ground and all he could do was chase after the sound of her gleeful laughter. He caught sight of her not long after losing her, but only to see her shakily twirl around a little boy, who was trying his hardest to stay on his feet, and begin the hard fall to the ice.

He skated faster to get there before she hit the ground, but he was too late. He watched in horror as she lost her balance and went crashing down, landing with a few nasty crack's and a cry that sounded more surprised than hurt. In a flash, he was sliding on his knees to her, stopping inches away and gingerly reaching out to touch her back. There were people all around them asking if she needed an ambulance, but all he heard was her moan of discomfort when she tried to move. "No," he said softly as she tried again, "no, love. Stay still and tell me what's wrong. What did you fall on? What hurts?"

From the angle he was at, he could just barely see her squeezing her eyes shut against the pain through locks of her fading blonde hair; apparently the hat she'd been wearing had disappeared in the fall. "Arm," she grunted, through clenched teeth, "ribs, shoulder."

His chest constricted, but he stayed as strong as she was being. "Does anything feel broken?"

"A bit, yeah," was her curt response. She tried to curl into herself, but he placed a hand on her leg to still her.

"Rose, stop moving, you'll make it worse."

"I called 999," a woman said, placing a hand on the Doctor's shoulder. "They should be here any moment." She flashed Rose a sympathetic smile before stepping back into the crowd and disappearing.

"Doctor."

He shifted positions so he could brush the hair from her face. "Right here, Rose. What is it?" Her face twisted as she inhaled a particularly deep breath.

"I still won."

Had the situation been less serious, he probably would have argued and they would have bantered until he gave in, but instead he shut his eyes and rested the palm of his hand on her cheek with a nod. "Yeah, I suppose you did."

The Doctor had never once been a fan of hospitals, especially ones from the 21st century. It was all primitive medicine and the doctors were quacks and the shops weren't nearly as large as they would be in the following centuries. However, he found that in Pete's World, all technology seemed to be more advanced – about five decades, at least, by his reckoning – and therefore so was the medicine, as well as the shops. That little titbit of knowledge didn't help so much as they carted her off for tests and exams, and ordered him to stay in the waiting room. He'd never felt so useless before in his life.

He whipped through the ridiculous forms the nurses made him fill out, scribbling out tedious and asinine information he really didn't think they needed to know before practically throwing it back to them. It was only then he realised he had no idea what he was supposed to do with himself. He paced the length of the room, ignoring the dirty looks some others sitting in the uncomfortable looking chairs shot him. He shucked his scarf and jacket after a good ten minutes, leaving him in a hoodie and jeans, a far cry from the familiar, comforting pinstriped suit he usually wore when he was particularly stressed, but he had to admit it was more comfortable to walk around in.

As he circled, he ran through the long list of possibilities as to what happened to her; broken bones, internal bleeding, concussion, etc. Some were definitely more plausible than others, but the rational part of his brain had gone on holiday in the short about of time it took Rose to fall to the ground. The pacing didn't help the tension and neither did his own stupid negativity, but he was powerless to stop either. He was stuck dealing with Rose's first serious injury since his return to her without any form of comfort.

They'd gotten off relatively easy, now that he thought about it. With both of them working for Torchwood – or rather working with Torchwood, in his case – they were bound to get into life-threatening situations and to get hurt, but the worst they'd had was when he'd accidentally been scratched on the arm by a diplomat from the planet Foldoone, and that was nothing. They'd been so lucky for an entire year, it was only a matter of time before it all went sour. He was more angry that it hadn't been him instead. It was no secret he loved her enough to never want to see her in any sort of pain, from menstrual cramps to, well, this.

"'scuse me," came a deep voice, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder that made him practically jump out of his skin. He whipped around to see an ageing doctor with greying hair standing before him, looking neutral. "Are you the man who came in with Miss Tyler?"

"Yes, yes that's me," he nodded urgently.

"I'm afraid Miss Tyler has a few broken bones, a dislocated shoulder, and a lot of bruising, but all of that can be mended rather quickly. We were worried one of the ribs that cracked may have punctured a lung, but there was no sign of internal bleeding and the ribs weren't moved as much as we thought. It also appears as though the breaks were clean, so she won't need any surgery. We gave her some strong medication for the pain and we're just putting a cast on her now. She may be loopy for a few hours, but once we've set the bones, she should be all set to go home straight away," the older-appearing man explained, gently. The Doctor didn't bother to disguise the sigh of relief that came at hearing she was relatively okay. He wasn't too thrilled about the broken bones, but at least she was free to go after getting a cast. "Do you live with Miss Tyler or is there someone else who will be taking care of her?"

"No, no, just me. We live together."

"Right, well if you talk to the nurses at the station over there, they'll give you some more forms to fill out and you can take her home after that."

There was a long list of more asinine questions before he saw his precious Rose again. Her eyes were glazed over, most likely from the pain medicine, and there was a TARDIS blue cast on her arm from halfway up her right biceps down to her hand covered by a black sling, but otherwise, she was the same Rose she'd always been. Mostly in one piece. Her eyes seemed to light up when she saw him, and she made a move to get up from the wheelchair she'd been forced into, but the nurse pushing it laid a hand on her good shoulder, forcing her to stay down. His lips twitched at the look of discontentment – okay, maybe it was a full-blown pout – she settled with. He absently returned the forms and made his way over to her, coat on and scarf lazily hung over his shoulders.

She gave him a weak smile as he bent down to kiss her forehead. "I can take her from here," he said to the nurse, who nodded and backed away. He happily pushed her to the front door, where he helped her stand and walk out to their car.

The ride home was quiet, Rose leaning her head against the window to watch the buildings go by, and the Doctor trying his best to not cause an accident – he'd only recently passed his sixth attempt at a license exam. When they arrived at their flat building and he went to help her, he found that she was a lot chatter than he thought.

"Ya know you're taller than 'im, righ'?" she slurred as he gingerly slipped an arm around her waist to support her weight as she leaned on him. "Not much, bu' still taller. I like it. 's nice. I fi' bett'a."

"Really?" he grunted, steering her in the direction of the lift.

"Mm," she hummed, head lolling onto his shoulder. She was quiet for a moment as he pressed the button for their floor. "Docta'?"

"Rose?"

"Your hair... 's... floppy."

He frowned, running a hand back through it, expecting it to stay up, as it usually did, but it fell back down in his face. "I suppose it is." The lift dinged. He pressed forward into her enough that she got the message to move, then guided her towards their door. "That a problem?" She hummed again, reaching up with her left hand to try to mess it up. She missed, nearly poking him in the eye. "Oi," he laughed, catching it and pressing a kiss to her finger tips. "I like my eyes. I get to look at you with them."

She giggled until they were through their front door. Rose reminded him of a baby deer as she tottered over to the sofa, then of a jadoon as she plopped down onto it. She squeaked, having apparently jarred her arm by mistake. He was at her side instantly – her good one, that is. She sniffled, rested her head against his chest, and sighed. "Babies," she blurted, eventually.

He nearly choked on his own spit. "What?"

She didn't move, just repeated herself; "Babies."

"What about them?"

"Cute."

"So are kittens, but you still said no," he muttered.

She lifted her head to look at him, eyebrows pressed together. "I though' you hated ca's."

"Yes, but kittens are still cute."

"But they grow inta' cats." He shushed her and her head dropped back to his chest.

"So what about babies? Other than that they're cute."

She let out a long breath, but didn't say anything for a few minutes. He honestly thought she'd fallen asleep until he went to check and she spoke. "D'you wan' babies?"

Thought he'd been expecting the question since her first outburst, his breath still caught in his throat. The idea of Rose Tyler considering having children with him was enough to make his knees give out – if he were standing up, of course. He'd thought about it at length – what they'd look like (little Roses would probably be the death of him), whose personality they would take after (the brilliance stubbornness and sense of adventure from their mother, most likely, and hopefully not his tendency to prattle), the names they'd have (he had a very firm opinion of the name Gallifreya for a girl), how they would juggle children and Torchwood (he was more than willing to give up his office time if it meant spending time with his and Rose's children) – and he'd arrived at the conclusion a long time ago that there was no doubt in any part of his body that didn't want to have babies with Rose. He'd also decided that leaving it up to Rose was the only fair way of going about it.

He twisted so he could kiss the crown of her head. "As long as they're yours, yes," he answered, barely above a whisper.

He felt her breathing hitch, much like his had. He smoothed down her flyaway hairs and smiled gently. "I didn' think you did," she responded, somewhat less lucid than a minute before.

The Doctor frowned at that. "Why would you think that?"

She shrugged, then hissed as she remembered why using both was a bad idea. "You never say anythin' 'bou' it, so I jus' figur'd ya didn'..."

He wished she wasn't broken so he could crush her to him. He settled, instead, for shushing her as he stroked her neck with the pad of his thumb. "I didn't want to push you into anything, Rose," he explained. "I wanted it to be your decision to have children, or not have children, with me or...without me. It wouldn't have been fair for me to come back to you and force you to do anything you didn't want to do."

"'at's sweet," she murmured, sounding sleepy once more.

"Yeah," he mused, kissing her hair again. "What about you?"

"Whot about me, whot?"

"Do you want babies?" he asked, almost shyly.

"Mmm yeah."

"Yeah?"

She hummed, and he expected more, but nothing came. He shifted so he could see her face to find her eyes shut; she'd fallen asleep. He smiled, but it quickly flipped upside-down when he tried to figure out how to get her to bed without waking or hurting her. Apparently 'babies' was the easy part.