Title: Peaches
Rating: PG/T
Characters: Ten/Rose
Summary: The Doctor and Rose engage in some early morning banter over breakfast.

Warnings: Fluff…lots of fluff.

A/N: Wrote this a long time ago but thought I might post it over here in an effort to get back into a writing mood. There is a sequel of sorts that I'll probably post in a couple of days.

Peaches weren't supposed to be eaten like this. They were supposed to be cut up into nice, bite-sized pieces and they weren't meant to be this juicy. Little pieces popped in the mouth, no evidence of juice. Definitely no small trickle of nectar running from the corner of his mouth, a precarious drop hanging from the corner of his jaw. Begging to be licked off.

Breakfast was meant to be a fatigued, groaning affair with mumbled complaints and sleepy conversation. That was right, she wasn't a morning person. All her life she was the one to get up only when forced, to slouch around for the next half hour with her eyes half closed. So when had that changed? When had it become a fact of life that she almost always beat him to the kitchen to sit there, waiting, watching?

Obviously whenever he'd discovered peaches. He took another bite and put it back on his plate, lips pursing shut as he chewed, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip in a useless attempt to remove the sticky sheen. Grinning at her, he finally made eye contact over the top of his coffee, taking a long gulp of his normal morning fare.

"What?" he asked as she pointedly raised an eyebrow.

Forcing herself to stop thinking what she was thinking – just what peaches and coffee would taste like on those lips – and adopt a slightly mocking tone, she waved casually towards his nose. "You've got froth..." Her voice trailed off as she found herself wanting desperately to reach out and remove the white dab of milk, and not with her hand.

He flashed her a saucy grin and something in her began to suspect he could read minds. Eyes slightly cross-eyed, he did his best to lick the tip of his nose, falling short by a couple of centimeters but still getting a result: a slightly gaping expression from Rose, half-shocked, half-heated. And he saw it, understood it, and wondered if this was the morning she'd finally snap.

He shrugged, wrinkling his nose and taking another bite of the fruit, another stream of juice escaping his lips, and his tongue darting out just in time to catch it.

"You can't just leave froth on your nose," she told him, sounding incredulous.

"Why not? It's not bothering me. Is it bothering you?" Something in his voice should have warned her, something deeper than usual and tempting, or maybe she was just imagining it.

And it was bothering her, the froth. It was making her mouth dry and her hands itch and she just wanted to walk over there and…

Of their own volition, she found herself on her feet, walking around the table with a resolve she didn't feel. A shocked look crossed his features and he moved away from her as he quickly dropped what was left of the peach on the table. Throwing caution to the wind, because he really must have known what he was doing to her, she placed one hand on the table beside him and, after a moment's hesitation, the other on the bench, just millimeters from his thigh.

She leaned in, breath light and shaky. "Yes," she said, lips millimeters from his, "it is bothering me."

Eyes wide, he watched, waiting for her to do whatever she needed to, to catalyze the reaction. To make their lips meet, their fingers fall gently on skin, and so on and so forth, because he knew it was going to happen. And, by the looks of things, it was going to happen now.

Swallowing to keep his voice even, striving to sound playful and innocent, he said, "Then perhaps you should do something about it."

A grin and a raised eyebrow and she moved closer, if that was possible. "Maybe I will."

Closer, and she was defying the basic laws of physics to be this close without touching him. Her breath was playing across his lips, her scent, her warmth, pressing against him, telling him she was there and this was real, even if he still couldn't touch her.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something white, and then something was tickling his nose, then rubbing across his mouth and his eyes shut tightly in reflex. Opening them, he glimpsed a flourish of the white napkin being pulled away as Rose stood back. There was a triumphant smile on her face, her hands on her hips; her head tilted as though she were admiring her handy work.

His mouth fell open, something high pitched and incoherent escaping before he realized her triumph had morphed into amusement, all at his expense. So close, but she was pulling away, leaving after all that build up. And he could still smell her - her and the peach and the coffee.

She giggled and he wondered just how ridiculous he looked; considered chasing after her to engage in some innocent banter and fun, but then realized it would be several minutes until his legs could be relied on to carry him. All he could do was stare as she raised her eyebrows at him, threw the napkin down on the table, turned and walked away. Casting a smug look back over her shoulder, she smiled teasingly at him as she disappeared down the hall.