I don't own Doctor Who!

The Sun

He was kissing her like he had never kissed anyone in his entire life. She was kissing him back with equal fervor. The room was dark with the faint light of the hallway was creeping into the room. He could feel her skin, the slight smile on her lips as she kissed him.

He rested his hands on her hips and pulled her closer to him until they were flush together. Her hand tangled in his hair, gripping his head harder and closer. Her tongue danced over his lips and into his mouth as his competed for the equal ground in hers. He had never felt so happy in his entire life. He was complete and genuinely full of joy. When he touched her the universe seemed to melt around him until it was only the Doctor and Rose Tyler.

He sat bolt upright in his bed. He rubbed his eye, looking around him. The room was dark, the faint light of the hallway creeping in. Save for himself, his bed was empty. The bed that he so wanted filled with the beautiful woman sleeping soundly down the hall, wanted curled up next to him so he could brush the hair out of her face while she slept, so he could feel her slow breath on his face.

He looked down at himself, and, turning red for was maybe the first time in his life, took a pillow and placed it on his lap to hide the evidence of ahem.

No, he thought. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Bad Doctor. Time Lords don't lust after humans. They might love, but it was surely wrong to feel it this intensely. It was a distraction. A distraction from a universe that so clearly needed his expertise and saving. This wasn't happening. No, no, no.

He looked at the clock next to his bed. It was three in the morning and he'd been asleep for about an hour. He could get up now, he thought, and tinker with the console, maybe read Dante's Inferno again, that would dampen his spirits. Yes, he might just do that.


Rose Tyler jerked awake. It had been so visceral. They had been so close that they were practically tangled in each other. She had felt his breath and it was hot and wonderful. Just as his mouth had started to trail down from her lips and onto her neck, her dream shattered like glass and she was left, alone she realized, in her bed. At three in the morning.

What was even stranger is that she still felt like she could feel him. She could feel the slight roughness of his hands on her hips and he pressed them together. She could feel the racing of his two hearts against her chest.

Her own heart was pounding wildly. It was the most turned on she had ever been, and it was a dream. Whoa, Tyler, she thought, keep it together. A dream, typical.

She'd had dreams like this before, but never so real, never so residual. She shuddered under her covers and pulled them over her shoulders. Stifling a fleeting sob, she pulled herself together, mostly, and tried to sleep, swearing she could still feel the warmth of his body against hers.

In the morning she dreaded waking up. How could she stand to be around him when she so badly wanted to make her dream real? How could she hold his hand without begging him to touch her everywhere? But she would have to. Throwing on a pink dressing gown, she made her way into the kitchen.

The Doctor, of course, was already there and hand made her a cup of coffee, which she thought was both very thoughtful and adorably domestic.

"Mornin' Miss Tyler," he said peeling a banana.

She tried not to make eye contact for fear that he would see the desire that she could not expel from behind her eyes.

"Mornin'," she replied. She reached into the cupboard and retrieved a box of Pop-Tarts, which she ate without toasting. "Where're we off to today?"

She hazarded a look up and saw that the Doctor was looking directly at her, with an intensity that made her feel naked. She wasn't sure how she felt about this.

He seemed to realize she had spoken to him and said, "Sorry, what'd you say?"

"Where are we going today?"

"Ah, yes. Right. Wherever you desire, Rose Tyler. There's a planet called Florantina that you might like. The entire planet is a massive English-style garden. Except the plants talk, and have a lot of opinions about intergalactic politics that they're dying to share."

"Hmm, that sounds good." She took a bite of her Pop-Tart and smiled, appreciating the way he looked without a tie. It gave him a sort of devil-may-care look sent butterflies loose in her stomach. He was wearing his black-framed specs and fiddling with his Sonic Screwdriver. Before she could stop herself, she spoke.

"I had the weirdest dream last night, Doctor."

"Yeah?" he said, wary, but he wasn't sure why.

"Yeah, it was really intense."

He raised an eyebrow. His had been really intense too.

"Feature anyone we know?" he asked casually.

"Uh, well. Well you were in it. Just an adventure, you know. Very vivid." She tried to make it sound platonic and friendly. She tried to make it seem like it was the setting of the dream that was intense. That it was experiencing the dream itself that was intense, instead of their actions, their touching, and their snogging.

"Oh, right." His heart fell a bit. But what was he expecting? Why would she be having dreams like his? She'd been traveling with him for a while now; her dreams were bound to get more detailed and intense.

"I also had a weird dream," he said suddenly, making her jump.

"Was I in it?" She thought she'd get to the point.

"You were. Can't have an adventure without my faithful companion! Even if it is in my head."

"What were we doing?" Wow, she thought, I'm getting a bit bold. But the question is innocent enough, right?

He gulped. Could she know? Of course not. Don't be silly. Loving Rose is addling your brain. Wait. Loving? He didn't mean that. He meant…he didn't know what he meant.

"Oh, you know. Little of this, little of that."

"Sure. I'm going to get dressed and then we can go, yeah?"

"Right you are, Rose." He had to work on getting his hearts rate down to normal anyway.

Florantina was beautiful. The Doctor got into a bit of a tiff with a haughty sprig of lavender over trade agreements in the Andromeda galaxy. Rose was pretty sure that the Doctor didn't give a rat's arse about trade agreements in any galaxy, but he did appreciate a good argument. When a drunk-sounding petunia started harassing the Doctor about his string-bean figure, Rose began railing on the poor blossom with such fury that the Doctor had to stop her from picking it, which would have been a capital offense.

Blimey, he thought. That defense was a little extreme. Not that I mind, really.

Rose sat on a rock by a bush of chatty black-eyed susans. She wasn't sure why she had reacted like that. It wasn't even a big deal. People, maybe not flowers, called the Doctor skinny all the time. She called him skinny. She'd never reacted like this before. But it didn't feel weird, she thought. It felt right to defend him, even for something as little as this. He'd saved her life loads of times, defended her against aliens that belittled her humanity. She was just doing the same for him…sort of. That explained her overwhelming and irrational desire to yell at a flower. Right.

They returned later to the TARDIS without a bouquet of flowers, as much he wanted to pick some for her, because neither of them fancied committing mass murder. He released her hand as she walked off into the corridors to her room to go to bed. His hand tingled a little, and his body was almost compelling him to run after her, push her up against a wall and snog her with everything he had. She smelled like flowers, it lingered on her skin and he smelled it on the hand that was in hers.

That night the Doctor slept fitfully. He dreamed of Rose again. It was as if they were really together. He woke up, the scent of her hair and skin lingering in his nose. When he was kissing her she had given off a sort of pinkish glow, like a tangible aura. It mixed and intermingled with his golden aura, which he was surprised to see he had, and it had sealed them in against the universe.

He woke up, the scent of her hair and skin lingering in his nose. He was sweating. She shouldn't be doing this to him. He shouldn't be letting this happen. It wasn't even her fault. It was his fault for letting himself feel this way. He needed to take control. He didn't lust for his companions. He didn't love them. Not romantically.

But Rose was different.

Was she?

She definitely, definitely was.

But he couldn't have her. He didn't deserve her. She didn't even want him that way, did she? And of course one day she would die; he'd keep on living, and he would live forever in misery. Like you've been doing already? he thought. He should let her go. She should get to have a full life with someone she could get old with and give her children, if that's what she wanted. He couldn't give her that. He only had pain and bitterness and hundreds of years of hollowness.


But Rose didn't want any of that, she thought, awake and leaning against the pillows on her bed. Her dream had been so real, as if she were really, really touching him, and kissing him and loving him. She was obsessing, she thought. This couldn't be healthy. He had smelt of flowers and tea.

What she wanted was a life with him. She wanted what he had to offer, just himself. What was a long life growing old with someone if you didn't love them like the way she loved him? If she had him then she wouldn't need to have children. He was enough. More than enough. More than she deserved. But he didn't feel that for her, he couldn't.

In her dream he had pulled away from her and his body drooped slightly. He looked the very definition of melancholic. He said she'd die, he'd keep on living, and he would live forever in misery. Then he seemed to fight with himself. He had said that he should let her go. She should get to live a full life with someone else. That he didn't deserve her. He couldn't give her that.

Before she had a chance to respond, the dream shattered into pieces and she woke up to a cold, empty bed.

There was a quiet knock on the door.

"Yeah? Come in."

The Doctor pushed open her bedroom door and walked in a couple of paces.

"Didn't think you'd actually be awake," he said.

"Couldn't sleep. Weird dream."

"Me too."

It did not escape Rose's notice that he was shirtless. It made her heart race, but why should she be surprised? What did she expect him to sleep in, a suit and tie? He was still wearing his brown pinstriped suit trousers, and considering his barefootedness, shirtlessness, and even messier hair than usual, Rose thought she might have heart attack if he came any closer.

"You want to come sit?" she asked.

"Quite." He sat next to her and she felt she was practically vibrating with anticipation.

He took her hand in his own. He wanted to tell her about his dreams; he wanted to show her. He, the Doctor, a Time Lord, wanted to reach out to this pink human girl and connect her irrevocably to him. But he would not. He would hold her hand. That would do.

"What did you dream about?" she said suddenly. Even in the middle of the night, she did not look tired. She looked awake and bright and amazing.

He wasn't sure what he should say. He shouldn't be honest; that could lead to two possible cascades of events, both of which ended badly. The first possibility, and the most likely, he thought, was that she would reject him. Not only would she reject him, but she would be disgusted with him. He was nine-hundred years old, after all. Maybe she thought of him as a kind of father figure. Oh, he hoped she didn't think of him as a father figure.

The second possibility (which he thought was a very generous term) was that she felt the same way. That she loved him too. They would touch, kiss, and dance. He would be incandescently happy for a few decades and then she would die. And he would be miserable.

But he was already miserable. He was miserable because he could almost taste complete happiness, but he was a coward. When it came to Rose, to loving Rose—because now, sitting in this bed with her, he had to admit that he loved her, every part of her, from the flyaway blond hairs at the top of her head to the very tip of her toes—he was a coward. He could face a band of angry Daleks any day, but Rose defeated him every time she looked at him with that bright, crooked smile.

So he said the only logical thing to say.


"Me?" she said quietly.

"The very same."

She didn't know what to say. What do you say to that? Do you make light of it? Ask him what alien they were running from in his sleep? Should she defer a real answer and change the subject? She didn't want to do that. The ball was, as they say, in her court now.

So she said the only logical thing to say.

"I dreamed of you too."

He gulped, his throat catching on a million different endearments, thousands of self-chastisements.

He felt the faint tinkling of the TARDIS in his mind.

"Ah," he muttered, and then, "Oh! Oh, goodness. Oh, dear. What a saucy minx."

"Doctor?" She hadn't expected this reaction from him.

"I think this old girl's out to get us, she is." He patted the wall behind the bed.

"What does this have to do…" she began to ask.

"You've been dreaming of me, you said? I've been dreaming of you too." He swallowed again, not knowing if he should thank the TARDIS over and over or giver her a good long talk later on about boundaries and dignity. Or if Rose would be monumentally spooked with what he was about to tell her.

"The TARDIS," he began, "seems to think it would be, ah, amusing—no, no, sorry, her phrasing was 'in our best interests' if she merged our dreams."

"What?" said Rose, not really understanding.

"She connected our minds while we slept."

Then it dawned on her. Her dreams felt so real because really, they almost were.



"In our dreams?"


"And the TARDIS did that?"

"She did. I'll have a little talk with her later. I'm sorry she did that, Rose."

There was a pause. The air was heavy with the unsaid.

"I'm not," said Rose finally.

"No?" He wasn't really sorry either. It seemed that Rose loved him too, thought about him as lustfully and as lovingly as he did her.

"No. I-" she paused. "You really think of me like that? You actually…want to kiss me?"

He thought he'd like to do much more than that, but one step at a time.

"More than anything."

"I want to kiss you too. A lot."

"Yeah?" he asked. What a daft idiot, he thought, I should have just kissed her.

She turned to face him and looked him square in the eye. The intensity melted his hearts.

"Kiss me," she said.

He didn't need to be told again. Even if this was wrong, even if one day she would die and he would be more alone than ever, he could have this happiness now. He would give her every part of himself.

He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers and brought his face an inch from her own. Their breath mingling together, his lips descended on hers, crashing together clumsily and desperately. Her mouth opened, just like in their dream, and his tongue slipped in. Her hand tangled in his hair and she pulled him closer with intense need.

He pulled away briefly, gasping for air.

"You are," he started between breaths, "quite definitely…the most beautiful thing…I have ever seen. And…I love you, quite completely."

She smiled so broadly that it lit up her entire face. She was like the sun, his own personal sun within a lifetime of horror and destruction and pain.

He kissed her again, this time with passion and fervor and possessiveness. She enjoyed this kind of kissing. His lips moved down from her mouth and over her neck, her collar bone, the top of her chest.

Gazing at her knowingly, she removed her camisole. He wiped the first tear he had shed since the destruction of Gallifrey from his cheek, knowing that a minute of this kind of happiness with Rose Tyler was enough to fight any shadows the future might promise him.

Touching the Doctor's arm with her fingertips and kissing him squarely on the mouth, Rose Tyler was quite pleased to know that she was not dreaming.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!