Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.
It had been six months, three weeks, one day, six hours, three minutes, one second, and an odd number of handfuls of milliseconds since she had, quite frankly, snogged him nearly senseless. Since he had grabbed her hand and since they started their new lives. Together. The word sent happy little shivers up and down her spine, shivers that he noticed. Shivers he wanted to see roll over her body for different reasons. He wanted to make her shiver, wanted to make her shake. Wanted it in entirely inappropriate ways. The thought always brought a smile to his lips and a slight tilt to his hips.
How many times had he envisioned it? How many times had he wanted his hands to linger at his hips or to swirl his tongue over every inch of her? Surely enough times that it was painfully obvious to her. And, it was true, there were times when something flickered inside her eyes and her breath dragged so that he knew she was playing it out in her head just as surely as he constantly played it out in his. He played it like you'd play your favorite movie scene, watching it even after you could see it in your mind crystal clear. He planned what he would say, how he would say it, where they'd be, where they'd end up. It made his hands quiver and his body ache in a way that was in no way new, but somehow more forceful in this body. He practically writhed and she had to be able to notice it. How could she not? She'd turn to face him, it would take him off-guard, and he'd be leaned too close to her. Or, she'd reach for his hand and he'd pull her as close as he could get her. He'd finally come to the conclusion that she was testing him, playing hard to get. Then, almost simultaneously, he'd decided that he'd had quite enough of it. It would end. Today, if he had his way.
The day had started off completely normal. Well, Rose amended herself, as normal as her days ever start off. The sunlight had flooded through her window just in time to witness her rolling over to violently bash the alarm, anything to quiet it. She had taken what had recently become her normal more cold than hot shower, thrown on something presentable, and headed downstairs for her breakfast.
She had just flicked the cap back on the syrup after thoroughly drowning her freshly made (thanks to the kitchen staff, she was rubbish at cooking herself) pancakes when he had sauntered in. Sauntered really was the only word for it. He just strolled in like he owned the place and headed right for her. His t-shirt rolled up when he waved at her in greeting and she could see a light dusting of hair that dipped below his checkered flannel sleep pants. Too busy with tracing its path with her eyes, she forgot to wave back. He chuckled, missing nothing, and the sound pulled her back into reality and snapped her eyes up to his face. "Morning!" She said brightly (pleased that her voice was only slightly less composed than usual), slipping her fork into her mouth and lapping up the stray syrup. His step faltered as his eyes darkened. Her smile formed around the utensil. Stepping up to her and reaching out a finger, he gathered up another drop of the sugary, thick liquid and slid his finger into his mouth. "Can I see you tonight?" He asked, voice formal even though he was talking around his finger. When he reached down to scrape up more syrup, she intercepted his hand, fingers trickling over it softly.
"Yeah." She nearly whispered, not the least bit hesitantly popping his finger into her mouth. He lurched forward as she maneuvered her tongue around it, and the look in her eyes was only for him. He slid the plate from her hands onto the counter, shifting a slippery-socked foot in between her still-bare feet and leaning heavily against her. She backed her way towards the counter, hands grappling for purchase on the slick surface. Their faces were inches apart, and both their minds were flittering back to remember their only other kiss and how it was all wind and salt and fire when a very unfortunate incident occurred.
Jackie had walked in, and that put a stop to that.
He had hit her hard again when, at the job they now both shared, he managed to lure her into very close quarters. Feeling very teenage, and also fearing the verbal beating she'd receive from her mother and the not-so verbal beating he'd probably have to endure should Pete find them, Rose balked.
"This. Is. A. Broom. Closet." She whispered vehemently, calling on everything she had to keep her eyes open and focused as he made swirly patterns up and down her arm with his fingers. He nuzzled his nose against hers and she could feel his warm breath cascade over her cheek.
"Well, if you wanted to be technically correct, it's actually a mop closet. Not a broom in sight, I checked before I asked you in here for the very purpose of disproving that very statement. The broom is most definitely missing from this room." She shook her head, vision cloudy not only for the obvious reasons but also because he was the same and he was different and she was still only starting to realize it.
She hoped she was still realizing it for a very long time.
For the second time in just one day, his lips hovered next to hers and her heart beat almost as fast as his. His hands slid to her waist and he had pulled her up to stand on his feet and over to be crushed close to him. They were going to kiss, in a musty, unlit broom closet, and neither one of them had a problem with it.
And then the janitor walked in, missing broom in hand.
They can't get another moment to themselves until the day is almost over. She's just finished brushing her teeth, pulled her hair up unto a sloppy ponytail, and slid on the baggy shorts she's used to sleeping in when he runs in.
Bolting the door behind him, he tugs haphazardly at the grey t-shirt he's wearing. "We have to talk… now."
But, he's definitely not using his mouth to form words when he pulls her to him.
Funnily enough, they don't get a lot of talking done that night.