Author's Note: Finally, it's here: the first in the line of missing scenes as a part of the 'Incompatible' series. Definitely need to have read 'Language of Hands' first. It's a bit short, but I hope you enjoy any way!

Next story up is 'A Normal Life'.

Time Frame: Set after 'Idiot's Lantern'. About a month or so after 'Language of Hands'.

Summary: He can't put his scattered thoughts to words and she understands. She knows him. So she helps him out, holding out a hand to him, begging him with her eyes and her wiggling fingers to come closer, to seek out that tactile comfort he's craving.


Almost Perfect

Oddly enough, their relationship didn't deteriorate into awkward moments and pauses, as they feared it might. They still talked about everything- about each other, about their adventures, about the book she found tucked into the corner of the library, and the problem with the temporal something or another he yet again managed to fix.

And yet it had changed. They didn't talk about it- didn't discuss the implications, didn't discuss the potential of future nights together. And yet they didn't ignore it. It was there, it was a reality. If she saw him lounging about, she simply curled into him. If he had the urge to kiss her (which she found he had quite often), he would without preamble. If she wanted to run her hands through his hair, then she did. They were as normal with each other as they ever were before, just not.

But then came the Wire.

Then came his fury and her fear and a resurgence of hidden feelings and uncertainties. Which was normal. They ran into all kinds of danger and trouble, they found themselves near death and clawing for life, but every time it was swept under the proverbial rug, nursed away with a hug and a smile. She figured that this event was no different.

And that's why it's a bit of a surprise when he shows up at her door late that night. He just stands there, watching her, thinking that she's asleep. She's not, she usually isn't after an event like this, she just doesn't want him to know.

"Doctor?" Her voice is soft, sleepy. He doesn't respond, but moves closer. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just…" He can't put his scattered thoughts to words and she understands. She knows him. He might be the most vivacious and talkative person she had ever met, but he's rubbish with emotions.

She helps him out, holding out a hand to him, begging him with her eyes and her wiggling fingers to come closer, to seek out that tactile comfort he's craving. He takes her hand, collapsing as he sits next to her. She smiles up at him, letting him take the time he needs.

He strokes her hair; it's a new habit of his, one he never really had before their night together. His fingers tangle through the dyed strands, combing through them, carefully watching to keep from snagging.

Then he finds her face. The smooth pads of his fingers run over the sharp angles and delicate curves, mapping her, burning the image into his mind, forcing it into another's place.

She'd lost her face today. He's checking, assuring himself that she's all there.

It's not a surprise when he leans down to catch her lips, she's become used to such familiarity. What's a surprise is his passion. In the past, his kisses were light, gentle pressing of lips against lips. But now he's sucking at her bottom lip, running his tongue along it, begging for entrance. She lets him, lets him hold her firmly against him, lets him thrust his tongue against hers, possessing her, claiming her in a way that she had never before been claimed.

When he breaks away, even he is panting, starved for breath despite his advanced lungs. He rests his forehead against hers, staring into her eyes, memorizing her features.

"I thought I had lost you."

"But you didn't. I'm right here."

"Stay here."

"I plan on it. Forever, remember?"

He smiles, but it's sad and she wishes that he'd stop doing that, stop thinking so far into the future. But maybe it doesn't help that she keeps reminding him of it.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You're not going to."

"You should sleep."

She's used to the way he shifts subjects abruptly, used to him pulling away when she's not expecting it. But not this time. This time she needs the comfort just as much as he does.

Rose takes his hand, stopping him before he tries to move away. "Stay with me tonight. I want you to hold me. Please?"

He stands, his hand going limp in hers. She worries for a moment, hoping that he isn't planning on leaving, but he smiles softly at her, calming her fears, and she lets go.

His clothes slowly leave his body, one piece followed by another. She likes watching him, likes laying on her side, her hand propping her head up and her hair falling around her arm. It's so domestic the way he folds his trousers and shirt and places them on her desk chair.

His weight sinks the bed and shifts her closer to him. They really do fit so well together, just like their hands. His bare chest presses against her silk nightgown, his legs tangle with hers, his arm wraps protectively against hers. This is good. Comforting. Almost perfect, if there wasn't that nervous cloud hanging over them.

But this is good. This is right. They'll survive. They've got to. Because they've got forever to figure this out.


Next up: 'A Normal Life'