A/N: Hi there. I hope you enjoy this little oneshot, and I hope you review it either way. :)

The only time he tells her he loves her is when he loses control with her.

Her body is pressed against his, and she knows by the feel of him against her that it will not take much, but she wants it to last. She always wants it to last.

She slows him down, her hands pressed against his chest, feeling the rhythmic beating of his hearts under her palms. She kisses him softly as she unbuttons his shirt. He wants her to rip it off. She knows this because it has happened on multiple occasions before, but tonight she wants it to last longer.

His shirt comes off and their lips break apart so that her shirt and his tie can be discarded as well, and then their lips are back and he is kissing her more fiercely again, and she is slowing him back down. She is practically saying it out loud, Be patient.

He holds her around the waist, bringing their bodies close once more. She sighs in contentment at the feel of his two hearts now beating sporadically against her one. Her hands are now tangled and tugging at his hair, and he begins making noise at the sensation. He has a very sensitive head. She discovered this months ago, but it never fails to please her. He sighs into her mouth, whimpers a little, holds her closer. She loves the noises he makes, the words he forms when he is with her like this. This is the only time when he tells lies neither to her nor to himself. She wants to prolong that as much as possible.

He pushes his hips into hers, whispering in what she thinks is a mix of English and Gallifreyan, but the TARDIS translates both, so maybe she will never know. Maybe he is whispering to her in Spanish, she thinks with a giggle, or Pig Latin.

He pulls back, asks what she is giggling about.

She tells him, Nothing. Smiles at him, teeth and all, watches him smile back. We need to get these trousers off of you.

He does not object, but smirks at her, almost glares at her through lustful eyes and grabs her hands with his, bringing them down to his buttons. The message is clear.

Bossy, she says, trapping her tongue between her teeth in a playful grin. He groans at the feel of her hands so close to him and her tongue sticking just out of her mouth like that. Something you'd like to say? she adds.

You are beautiful, he says, and she blushes, genuinely turns the color of her namesake under his dark gaze. He undoes her jeans and lets them slide down her legs along with her panties. You are so beautiful.

She accepts the compliment, ducking her head a little and removing his trousers as thanks.

Bed, she says.

This is a dance they have well-rehearsed, but she is still awed by how flawlessly they have this choreographed, even when it happens a little differently every night. She pushes him down and he falls willingly onto the bouncy mattress, groaning a little. She rejoins him, one leg on each side of his body. It is all she can do not to let him in now, but she still wants this to last. She wants to tease him more, and then she wants to make love to him slowly. Because it is only when they are together like this that he tells her how he really feels, and she wants to hear it over and over.

Her body is pressed together with his again, her hands once again tangled in his hair. His are in a not-so-innocent place, squeezing her bum, and now he is starting to babble in the way that only the Doctor could babble. So beautiful, so lovely, Rassilon, Rose, your arse is so - oh -

She shuts him up with a kiss, but he is making noises into her mouth. She knows that it is no good, that he will just keep making noises and trying to say things, so she trails her lips down to his jaw, a feature of his that she particularly loves. She retreats further from his increasingly noisy mouth, taking more time to brush her tongue against both pulse-points at his neck. She loves the feel of his hearts pulsing rapidly, loves knowing that it is because of her.

Rose, yes, that just there, that's just, that's so, oh, Rose -

He never shuts up.

She particularly enjoys it when she can elicit a swear from him. She drags her tongue all the way up his neck and listens as a drawn-out Fuuuuuuuuuck rumbles through him, followed by a high-pitched whimper. A series of short swears puncture the air when her teeth playfully follow the trail her tongue has just paved, nipping lightly against his stubble.

She loves this, how he seems to lose the ability to censor himself altogether. His typical ramblings have nothing on this, this full trusting honesty, this vulgarity. He does not mean to, but he is a dirty talker. He describes exactly what she will do to him, what she does to him, whispering it rapidly as if he will soon lose the ability to speak altogether and wants her to know everything now. And sometimes, under her or over her or behind her or right in front of her, he does lose the ability to speak altogether.

She considers it a talent. Silencing the Doctor. Or at least, reducing his big words to long and loud moans.

She loves the slight sheen of sweat that covers both of their bodies as she covers him. His hands are still cupping her bottom, squeezing and encouraging her to dip a little bit lower, let him enter her. She trails a finger from his clavicle down to his navel, and then further along that thin strip of hair until she has him in her hand, poised for entrance.

The two breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief when she finally guides him in. It is quiet, but only for a brief moment in time. Then, she begins to move against him and he begins babbling once more and she is making noise, too. He is praising her body in possibly a thousand languages, and she is crying out in thanks, and he is whimpering, so good, so beautiful, moaning, Rassilon, Rose, and screaming, Rose, oh, Rose, yes, that's, oh, and whimpering again, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck, Rose

She loves the expression of concentration on his face, the way his eyes open and close and squint slowly and occasionally roll back, the way he grits his teeth and sometimes sticks his tongue out, the way his bottom lip sticks out in a perfect pout. There is more noise as she loses the ability to make this last any longer and begins to speed up, desperate for her release and equally desperate for his. She knows when he is close because he stops witholding any truth from her, and it slips out from between those pouted lips, Rose, this is, oh, Rose, love you so much, Rose.

Her heart pounds at the words, and their release from his lips is better than her impending release by far. The words move through her body, course through them, a validation of his love for her. The only time he tells her the truth is when he comes undone in her arms like this, his voice raising to a shout, hitting its peak, sometimes cracking, and then coming back down, quietly, quietly, to a low moan like a whisper. Her body joins him in this mutual climax, egged on by the noises he makes and the words he forms. I love you so much.

It may be the only time he tells her this. He may never say it when his body is not underneath hers or on top of hers or pressed into hers or moving into hers. He may never take her on a candlelit dinner or a romantic walk through Paris, never marry her, never give her children or even a pet, never grow old with her. But he loves her, and she can accept those words now and hold them forever.

A week later, they are on Bad Wolf Bay, or rather, she is. And she believes that maybe he will tell her. Maybe she will have those words fully clothed, not touching him, not even in the same universe as him. Rose Tyler, I love you, fully vulnerable, fully truthful, almost tangible and probably for the last time, though she already knows she will never give up on finding her way back to him.

She thinks she will have these words.

And he supposes, if it is his last chance to say it - Rose Tyler -