This story happens in Series 2, right in between "The Idiot's Lantern" and "The Impossible Planet". I wrote it because I'm planning to write a much bigger JE fix-it in a few weeks and I needed to flex my writer's muscles a bit first. It has been a long time since I wrote anything that wasn't a research paper and I'm quite rusty. So consider this a bit of a tease for what I'm planning later…

Not That Kind of Love Story

There is no way of talking about shared sleeping arrangements without it sounding like innuendo. Rose often wondered if people were really having that much sex, or if they just really wanted other people to believe they were. The "New" new Doctor had always been a bit clingier than the first incarnation she had known, not a complaint, just an observation, but ever since The Wire had stolen her face, he hadn't wanted to leave her out of his sight. Rose blamed herself really, she'd been so tired when they finally got back to the TARDIS and so emotionally drained that she had simply grabbed the Doctor's hand and pulled him to her room. The whole experience had been traumatic for her as well and she didn't want to risk waking up alone from a nightmare. In hindsight she probably should have been a bit worried when he didn't even protest her dragging him down behind her in bed.

They'd been sharing a bed for about a week now, with no sign of it becoming anything less than a permanent arrangement, even though Rose knew for a fact that he didn't need half as much sleep as he was feigning: again, not a complaint, just an observation. What was a complaint, however, was the fact that the Doctor blatantly refused to acknowledge that anything was different. Rose may not have taken her A-levels, but that didn't mean she wasn't intelligent, by the third night she had picked up the pattern and announced her intent to go to bed, asking him when he'd be joining her. The Time Lord had deftly dodged the question by choosing that exact moment to have his head under the time rotor with the sonic screwdriver on its loudest setting. She'd gone to bed anyway, and sure enough, he'd followed, less than 5 minutes behind. She'd tried a few other times to bring up the topic and he'd continued to avoid it.

That was why Rose was currently sitting on the edge of her bed in her pajamas. She knew it was only a matter of moments before her Doctor would come through that door without a word, slip in to her bed, and cuddle her close for the rest of the night. But tonight Rose hoped to put an end to the ridiculous web of mixed signals they seemed to live in. Rose put on her least scary, but most stubborn face as she heard the knob turn.

The Doctor was clearly surprised to see her still upright, and almost ducked back out the door, but one look at Jackie Tyler's daughter told him that if he left, he might as well go find a ship full of Daleks and insult their fashion sense; it would be a more merciful death.

"Ready for bed?" Rose asked. It was a simple enough question in a nonchalant tone, and between any other couple, it could have been idle conversation, but Rose knew that she was forcing his hand. Rose had her Doctor cornered, and she was fully aware of just how dangerous that could be. She handed him a set of pajamas, "I took the liberty of fishing these out of the wardrobe, you've been sleeping in your button-down and trousers all week and quite frankly it's just uncomfortable to watch."

"Thank you," the Doctor replied tentatively, not sure where Rose was going with the conversation, but afraid just the same. Had he not been so on-edge, he might have chuckled at the fact the here he was The Oncoming Storm, Destroyer of Worlds absolutely terrified by little-miss-pink-and-yellow handing him his jim-jams. Then again, who was he fooling? He may have separated her from the Heart of the TARDIS, but Rose Tyler was still every bit the Bad Wolf, and he was still every bit as justified in being frightened of her, and that went double for bed time. "I—er—I'll just put them on in your bathroom."

Rose considered this a good sign, she'd half-expected him to excuse himself to a whole other room, never to return. She couldn't help but think of him as a wild squirrel, easy enough to coax in with treats and kind words, but one wrong move and she imagined him scurrying out of her room permanently. This was the exact opposite of what she wanted to accomplish. It was no secret that she was very much smitten with her Time Lord companion, and based on the way he held her when he thought she was asleep, she was pretty sure he returned her feelings. Getting him to quit sending such frustratingly mixed signals about what he was going to do about those feelings, however, was going to be a task worthy of a Nobel Peace Prize.

It wasn't long before the Doctor emerged from the bathroom covered in blue and white stripes. Rose had lain down on the bed, facing the side where he would have to lay if he intended to join her. Quietly, he slipped in next to her under the covers and draped his arm over her waist as he did every night. Rose could tell that he was uncomfortable facing her eyes instead of the back of her head, but now was not the time for her to relent; she mirrored his actions draping her own arm over his waist.

The Doctor briefly considered making up a weak excuse about leaving the kettle on and dashing out of the room. His brain even sent all the necessary signals to his limbs to start running away, but with a debatable amount of wisdom, his limbs answered with the exact opposite action: they pulled Rose closer. She must have seen the sheer terror in his eyes, because Rose slowly reached up and started caressing the side of his cheek. One look into her eyes, overflowing with nothing but love and acceptance, and the Doctor knew he was lost. He belonged to her, she belonged to him, and there was no point in being anything but happy about it.

Rose hadn't realized just how tense her Doctor had been, until he sighed in her arms, releasing it all. She closed her eyes and leaned forward to rest her forehead on his, content not to push him any further tonight, but clearly he was an "All or Nothing" sort of man because he took that moment to capture her lips. Rose had done a fair amount off kissing in her day, and what she and her Doctor were doing at that moment could not even be described with the same word. For the first time since they'd met, nothing was being held back. The hesitation and reservation that typically marked their chaste displays of affection had melted away, leaving pure emotion that was nothing less than a work or art.

Their romance had been a story worthy of The Bard, himself: not a tragedy like Romeo and Juliette, where the lovers are separated by death, having never consummated their bond, but a triumph like Claudio and Hero, where the lovers are plagued by doubt but overcome it to live in happiness together. This moment, this kiss was like the climax to their tale, and if the Doctor and Rose Tyler had anything to say about it, it would not be the only climax to occur that night.