Tart and Sweet
Rating: M. Only just though.
Summary: The Doctor decides to get back at Rose.
It was simply a matter of guts.
Of scraping together the courage to begin. Once started, the laws of cause and effect would take over. And he was a brave man - he'd defied death a thousand times, looked upon evil, had even faced off against Jackie Tyler on the rare occasion. So it wasn't impossible. He could be courageous.
Though in this instance it was proving surprisingly difficult. Immediately after breakfast that fateful morning, he'd set about planning his response. Mind focused, the flash of brilliance had struck him early: what he would do, how he would win. But then had followed two days in which he had meandered, stalled, waiting for the moment when he felt he could actually do it.
He mentally chastised himself, on the precipice of pulling his hair out, of running through the TARDIS rather than just pacing his bedroom.
Today, this morning, now.
Without allowing himself time to think, he sought the kitchen, knowing he'd find Rose there. She'd be waiting for him with that self-satisfied smirk on her features that said she still savored the image of his face, gaping and stupid, in her mind's eye.
Payback. Revenge. And not to be served cold, to be served hot – ridiculously hot if he did this right, so hot she might stop breathing and her heart would race, her skin would burn.
Because he knew what she wanted, knew what he wanted, and in a moment of striking clarity posed the rhetorical question: Why would you wait for something like that to happen? Why wouldn't you force it; catalyze it?
Sure, up until two days ago he wouldn't have said it was a guarantee. Couldn't swear that those looks she threw him definitely meant she wanted to feel his lips on hers. Now, after those few minutes in which she'd played him like a pro, he knew. Not specifically from any one source, but he knew it was there, was blinded by the fact that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her and yet nothing had ever happened. Nothing. Ever.
Why? Where was the logic in that? There was none; it was the very epitome of illogical. But for logic to reassert itself, first he had to beat her at her own game. Even out the playing field.
He stopped in the shadow of the doorway. Watching as she sat there, oblivious to his presence. She had her tea and toast with jam; a hand curled around the cup for warmth while the other flipped the pages of a magazine. Pausing, she took a bite and went back to reading, chewing slowly before swallowing.
Without looking she reached out for the white napkin sitting next to her plate. Dabbing at the corner of her mouth she paused to grin, eyes on the material as she placed it back on the table, patting it like it was an old friend. Her lips continued to curl upwards and there was that oh-so-sure smirk.
Even when she thought he wasn't there.
He would have growled but he didn't want her to see him yet. He let his exasperation seep out through pursed lips and a heated gaze. Suddenly pragmatic, he found his excuse for waiting: deciding how he wanted her, deciding to wait until she could be manipulated. Watched her finish the toast and close the magazine.
She tapped her fingers on the table twice, a faint frown appearing as she wondered where he was. But he just smiled lazily, ignoring every impulse to action his body was urging.
Draining the last of her tea, she stood up and moved around the table, about to collect her dishes and move to the sink.
He hesitated for only a second, his brain's instruction to move racing ahead of the mental demand that he not do this. By the time he'd decided it would be more appropriate to think this through some more, he was inside, hands in pockets, chin high, and a look more manic than it needed to be on his face. "Hello, Rose," he exclaimed, sounding like he was having the best day of his life, as if he were only seconds from bursting into song.
Brief wariness crossed her features before she remembered that she was the one with the power - that for two days he'd been the one to blush as she bit into a peach at breakfast - and that that had to mean something. So she grinned and stepped away from the table, moving towards him, hands on her hips. Tone slightly mocking, she replied, "Good morning, Doctor. Nice to see you've finally managed to get out of bed."
He hardly heard it, just nodded faintly and his eyes flew from hers, coursing down her body in a completely undisguised manner. It wasn't the first time they'd traced out the curve of her body, but now he didn't have an excuse: there was no way he could say he was searching for signs of weariness or making fun of her clothes. His gaze was impassioned from the start and lingered too long in certain places.
It terrified her; in an instant she knew he was in control of too many variables. But she stood her ground, waiting for his eyes to reconnect with hers; to see the manic look gone and one corner of his lips turned upwards secretively, the rest of his face blank.
He stepped forward, unhesitating, powerful, and didn't stop: four steps to get to her and she could have sworn he would have gone through her if she hadn't stepped back. Once, twice, and her legs hit the table, hard wood indenting the back of her thighs and causing her to almost stumble. But that didn't stop her because he was far too close. She angled away, hands finding the ledge, keeping her balanced as she arched her back, instinctively seeking space between them. It was pointless because his hands had flown to her hips and his feet had somehow edged between her own, thighs pressing between hers, hips slipping into place until she could feel him pressed against her, regardless of clothes.
And she hadn't realized that arching her back – keeping her lips away from his, their chests apart – would mean her hips lifting to fit to his. She could feel his breath through the rise and fall of his diaphragm, the pressure of his stomach against hers subtly changing, and she realized she'd stopped breathing.
Taking a gulp of air she caught his eyes, watched the war of amusement and passion and something that told her this was so much more than lust. They both knew it. But they'd deal with that later. Right now, she just wanted him to kiss her.
His hands slid upwards, content in having molded her hips to his and knowing she wouldn't pull away, dipping beneath her shirt to squeeze lightly at her waist, fingers splaying, pressing, caressing.
Leaning over her, his lips moving closer as his hands moved from under the material and slid upwards, incomprehensibly daring as one brushed across her breast, the thin cotton of her T-shirt doing absolutely nothing to shield her from the heat and weight of his hands. Thumbs tracing her shoulders, her neck, coming to rest in front of each ear, palms at her cheeks and his fingers spreading across her neck and into her hair, pulling her to him, making her forget to resist or be shocked, her back arching again but this time to get closer, body pressing to his.
He traced the soft contours of her face with his lips through the millimeter of air between them, mouth, breath and nose running across her skin, almost. She licked her lips; anticipation making her blood run fast and her mouth open slightly, desperately needing him to kiss her.
Breath in her ear, his words came out husky and unrestrained. "And now." He stopped and she wasn't sure if it was to heighten the anticipation or because his vocal chords had stopped working. "And now…" Oh and this time she knew the effect was deliberate; she could feel it, breath slowing as she tried to find control.
And now…what? Why was he even talking? She could feel her bottom lip trembling and would no doubt, any second, resort to begging.
"And now," he punctuated each and every word, deep and tormenting, "I'm not going to do anything." He didn't pull away, just froze, a self-satisfied grin on his lips as he stilled against her, the absence of movement shocking when a second before he'd been all avid motion. His fingers were no longer drawing tiny circles against her neck, his lips and nose no longer invading the air above her face. Muscles which had been vibrating with tension were still solid against her, but there was no longer any guarantee that they'd take any action. And she understood what he'd done, eyes going wide as his grin simply grew.
If she concentrated, she'd know the merest hint of invitation would have him unable to resist and the game would be forgotten, but for now he hovered between wanting to win and wanting to kiss her. All she had to do to tip the scales was speak or lick her lips or look at him the right way. It wasn't a secret, his body was betraying everything and all she had to do was concentrate; concentrate and she'd feel his hearts hammering away inside his chest, feel his pulse too fast, his blood rushing through him, his breath unsteady and shallow. Everything given away where his body pressed against hers, given away in his eyes.
But she wasn't concentrating, she was seething and doing her absolute best not to scream. That self-satisfied grin, combined with those chocolate brown eyes - darker now than they should have been - were washing everything away except the wish that he'd kiss her. Properly, possessively, and then she wouldn't care quite so much about the rest.
He stepped back, slight friction and then loss almost dragging a moan from her lips, almost. And he grinned: smirked as his hands fiddled at his sides, hesitating before backing away further, heading towards the door. A win though it hardly felt like one.
When his eyes finally released her, she sagged for a brief moment - trying to catch her breath and her mind and her balance - and then she moved, crossing the room soundlessly. She pushed him back with hands that grasped at the soft cotton covering his chest. His back hit the wall with a satisfying thud and she pressed so close they were both having trouble breathing.
Then she was kissing him and breathing became of secondary import. Lips met, rough at first, her hands climbing over his shoulders, her arms wrapping around him, her hands in his hair as her lips moved over his, waiting for the reaction.
She didn't have to wait long.
Shocked at his success, he hesitated as everything closed in around him, her body and arms and lips and the unyielding wall behind him – though if he wanted a way out that was his best bet. And she was kissing him. Finally. So he kissed her back, lips returning pressure and caress until they'd built a rhythm and were turning to experimentation, finding the best ways to elicit a response. Top lip, bottom, the corners and creases, sucking, caressing, licking, angles and pressure. Then he grasped her lower lip between his teeth, gentle, light but unexpected and swift, her deep gulp of breath telling of how it affected her.
He could taste jam on her lips as he licked briefly. Raspberries. He wanted more and knew how to get it; just ran the tip of his tongue across the crease of her lips, unsurprised as her mouth opened, her tongue darting out to meet his, tips touching in a tentative meeting and then mutual sounds, guttural and shaky rising quickly as the kiss deepened.
Pulling back, she opened her eyes, allowed her hold on him to loosen, hands falling until they were resting on his chest and he was no longer completely trapped. They shared a look, long and inquisitive, and then he smiled – it was shy; she could have sworn it was shy, with a hint of a secret – as his head bent, lips gently brushing the hollow of her throat.
He mumbled, soft vibrations against her skin, words that didn't seem to matter as her hands threaded into his hair and her lips found his cheek, soft as they caught their breath, bodies shifting into a tight hug. Raising his head, his hands moved around to her hips urging her a step back, falling to his sides as she complied.
With a cheeky grin he slid away, stalking across the kitchen as she asked from behind him, voice a little high-pitched with disbelief, "Any particular reason we're stopping?"
"Yeah," he told her matter-of-factly. He turned away from the bench to face her, something clutched in his hand. "I haven't had breakfast yet." It was a peach and she would have throttled him had she been close enough, his wide, toothy grin only making matters worse.
She glared, crossing her arms; on the verge of saying something when he walked back to her, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he came to a stop, peach held up between them like something vaguely dangerous, something he was warning her about.
He offered no resistance when she took it from him, hefting it experimentally in her hand. She studied it closely, then asked, one eyebrow raised, "This is your breakfast?"
She nodded. "Prepared to take it from me?"
He hesitated, wondering what she was thinking, but it was probably close to what he'd had in mind when he'd picked it up. "Yes."
Another nod, expression thoughtful as she turned slightly away from him, lips closing around the flesh, teeth tearing through as she took as big a bite as she could manage, juice dripping down her chin. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the outraged look on his face and giggled. The sound was muffled by her mouthful of fruit, but it quickly turned to a squeal as his arms snagged her around the waist, turning her to face him and pulling her close. He glared as she grinned at him, daring him, defying him.
One hand still wrapped securely around her waist, her body squirming against his – and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing – he brought his free hand up to her cheek, steadying her so he could catch her eye. His lips touched hers briefly, but his tongue licked over his own as he pulled back, savoring the taste of peaches and Rose.
"That," he said very seriously, "was my breakfast. And I do indeed intend on getting it back."
A/N: And there you have it. The Doctor gets back at Rose, Rose gets back at the Doctor, they all live happily ever after…or do they? No, kidding, they do. Thanks everyone for all your marvelous comments last time, as you can see by the prior 2500 word fic, they do help me judge what works and what doesn't…unless I just got that entire fic wrong. Either way, reviews are fantastic. Thanks!