Title: Ignition
Author: RamblingRose
Rated: R
Characters/Pairings: Doctor/Rose
Summary: Three incarnations… each waiting for the right moment.
AN: Unbeta'd. You guys please send my regular beta crimedoc1 (on live journal) loves. She really needs it right now.


Rose stands at the TARDIS kitchen counter, idly awaiting the moment when the kettle will boil. She's just turned it on so she doesn't expect it to reach boiling point any time soon. With a soft sigh, she rotates her neck and shoulders to work out the last of the sleep induced stiffness in her body.

Funny thing, dancing. A girl can work tendons and muscles that ordinary running for her life doesn't, leaving her sore and stiff come morning. Another funny thing is, that dancing leaves her with the same delicious ache as another high endurance activity does. And dancing really isn't how she really wanted him to leave her thighs and hips sore, but she can always pretend.

She can close her eyes and imagine the source of each gentle ache. And she dares not think his name from fear that he has some kind of telepathic link to his ship that would alert him of her doing so. She used to be sure, but since last night… she doesn't really know how he would react to her having such thoughts about him. It was easy to say he wouldn't reciprocate when, for her own sanity, she had been denying to herself that he was even a man. But now doubt and uncertainty of her theory hovered in the air.

Would he want to kiss a path down her neck? Would his mouth be cool or warm as he gently sucked and nipped at her pulse point? Would his cool touch make her shiver and quake? So many times his cool hand had slipped into hers… just the thought of them on her sensitive, naked flesh makes her heart beat rapidly.

Rose gasps when she feels cool finger tips against the back of her hand, snapping her out of her reverie. She dares not look up at him, scared he will see the raw and naked want for him in her eyes. He murmurs a question about the tea, close enough to her ear that she can feel his breath on her cheek. She shakily whispers that she's waiting for the kettle, tilts her head slightly in hopes of randomly getting an unintentional tickle of his breath upon her neck.

She has to bite her bottom lip to keep him seeing a response when it happens.

Surprisingly it makes her feel like she's on fire instead of being cold. His fingers trail lazy patterns over the back of her hand before drifting to her wrist. She turns her hand over, exposing the sensitive flesh of her wrist to his phantom touch. It feels like he's slowly stoking a spark he doesn't know he has ignited, doesn't know he is slowly feeding what will soon become a raging firestorm.

His fingers move further up her arm, pushing up the sleeve of her dressing gown. His breath continues to tease her neck, setting her nerve endings ablaze. She wants to say something, warn him about what he's getting into… but words fail her. She shivers, making goose pimples rise to her flesh. Oh God, what will she do if he knows that her dressing gown is the only thing between her and modesty?


She almost swoons there and then. There is raw hunger in his voice, it's heavy with lust and desire. "Doctor…" she whispers helplessly, unable resist the sirens call of his effect on her. She turns, looks up and nearly comes undone. The fire bursts to life when she sees her feelings reflecting in the icy blue depths of his eyes.

A whimper somehow escapes her lips as his mouth crashes down on hers. She is surprised to learn his lips and mouth are warm compared to his hands. Not nearly as warm as a human but… still warm. Still intoxicating… She moans when his tongue flicks over her lips.

She opens for him, lets him languidly explore and learn every curve and contour of her mouth. His hand comes up to cup the back of her head as he gently leans her over the counter ever so slightly. She wraps her arms around his torso, digs her nails into the back of his jacket, feels him shudder.

The kettle starts to whistle, she hears Jack call for her down the corridor, they pull away from each other just seconds before the other man breezes in, asking questions about what there is to do in a trans-dimensional time and space ship. He is so blissfully unaware of what he has narrowly missed seeing.

Rose tries not to be disappointed that the kiss never gets repeated.


Rose stands at the TARDIS kitchen counter, idly awaiting the moment when the kettle will boil. She's just turned it on so she doesn't expect it to reach boiling point any time soon. With a soft sigh, she rotates her neck and shoulders to work out the last of the sleep induced stiffness in her body.

His taste buds tingle as he watches her go through the motions of making her morning tea. Her hair is a mess and he's pretty sure the tattered pyjamas have been recycled for the past week. But at that moment, he can think of nothing but the last time he watched her like this. Many months and a different body ago.

But she's just as beautiful now as she was then. He can't help but wonder if she will welcome him in this new body like she did before. Will she still welcome a kiss from him? Does she still feel the same desire he had seen in her eyes back then? He doesn't feel or taste desire coming from her as much as he used to. She's happy to be with him, happy to travel, but he doesn't know if she still wants him.

It had been a lark, kissing her that day. He had been tasting her on the air for an hour and it had driven him insane. He had wondered whether it was him or the flashy captain that had caused it. He had remembered tasting it the night before when they had danced until Rose collapsed in his arms and when she had moaned his name in her sleep. He had taken the chance even though he had feared that he was wrong in his assumptions.

Does he want to take that chance again?

He may not give second chances, but he is willing to have one, should she offer it. But for now, she doesn't feel like she's offering. In his hesitation, she turns, spoiling his chance of truly showing her he's the same man, that he still wants her. He still wants her to come with him, but not in the way she so innocently thought in the falling ash. Then again, she doesn't know he wanted to make her come with him in his other body either.

Her eyes meet his, widen. and she gasps. Her surprise comes too late to be from seeing him standing there. A soft blush steals over her face and she looks away shyly. The moment, the chance, is forever gone.

He takes her to see her mum once she's dressed and ready to go and ghosts are about. He sends her away and almost instantly regrets never getting to know how she felt against these lips, that the only kiss they shared was so brief and not really Rose. When she comes back, he almost takes the chance when she says she's never going to leave him. That's when he realises that the reason he hasn't been seeing raw desire in her eyes since their first kiss, oh so very long ago, is because somewhere along the way it has turned to something deeper, stronger.

The raging fire he once saw her eyes now burns like a soft and gentle candle flame.

But they both realise there are more important things to tend to. At the moment. Affairs of the heart can wait twenty more minutes, Cybermen and Daleks cannot.

Not too long after that, he regrets never taking the chance.


Rose stands at the kitchen counter in their flat, idly awaiting the moment when the kettle will boil. She's just turned it on, so she doesn't expect it to reach boiling point any time soon. With a soft sigh, she rotates her neck and shoulders to work out the last of the sleep induced stiffness in her body.

They have been skirting around each other for weeks now, not really sure how to progress given the circumstances of their togetherness. Working for Torchwood is by no means as invigorating as hopping world to world through time and finding trouble, but their adventures seem to come at the right moments, just when he feels he's reached his breaking point of staying in one place.

He's half convinced it wouldn't be so bad if Rose didn't seem somewhat hesitant at times. It's just as bad as it had been when he first regenerated, that week they spent at Jackie's getting to know each other once again. Awkward and curious, carefully toeing the new boundaries of what they can do, who he is now.

They hold hands, she finds it odd that he's still somewhat cooler than her, not as cool as he once was but still cool to the touch. Both are curious as to what it will be like, now that there is nothing to stop them… no possible looming regenerations, no watching her wither away while he stays young and new. Both wonder when the other one will be ready.

He looms at the kitchen door, she can see his shadow against the wall in front of her. It's a bit of a morning ritual, really. She gets up to start the tea while he showers and gets dressed, he stands in the kitchen door way and watches her once he's done. He never moves from the door way until she acknowledges his presence, and he is always rather surprised she knew he was there and wonders how she did. She dares not tell him the sunlight from the sitting room gives his game away in ways the TARDIS never did, he might stop doing it.

Then one morning it's dark and dreary, no sunlight to give him away. But she smells the scent of his soap and sighs softly, waits for the sound of his bedroom door to shut. His bedroom, not theirs. Not yet anyway. His room with all the little trinkets from here and there, places they've gone for missions, to be diplomats, to just run away. Each little trinket holds a dear memory for both. For him it is reliving the first time he went to the location, several centuries and bodies ago. For her, it's things like watching his eyes grow large as he physically tells the stories, pretending to sword fight, ducking to avoid the memory of a large pendulum.

He's a masterful story teller, she hangs on to every word. As do any children or adults in the vicinity. The adults think he's mad as a hatter, the children just love hearing and watching him. She slowly falls in love with him again, for a third time. Falls in love with who he is and was.

Neither are really sure what is different about the gloomy day that gives him the nerve to halt at the kitchen door on his way to his room, towel around his waist. Maybe it's the way her dressing gown hangs from her bare shoulder, makes him freeze and ponder the possibilities of what may lay beneath the dressing gown --like it had the first time he kissed her in the TARDIS kitchen. Is she wearing something with a thin strap that has also fallen down? Nothing? A tub top of some sort, maybe, possibly?

She jumps and gasps, dropping the kettle she has just picked up, when he touches her shoulder. She spins around and stares up at him, wide eyed and oh so trusting. "Doctor…" she whispers as he reaches around her to click off the stove.

"Rose…" he murmurs, his hands burying themselves in her hair. The spilled water hisses against the element until it cools. He watches the fire that he had seen so long ago in her eyes ignite and instantly lose control.

Rose doesn't wait, she's longed for this day for what seems like forever. She stands on her toes and crashes her mouth to his.

The Doctor soon discovers there is nothing beneath the dressing gown. And, while the idea of a frantic shag against the refrigerator looks like a good idea on the late night telly, in practice the kitchen floor gives them both much better leverage. His room becomes a study, her room becomes theirs.

And they both find they have nothing left to regret.