Nothing you recognize belongs to me! This was written for onabearskinrug over on livejournal who commissioned a story with Rose and Eleven, fluffy sexy and happy. This takes place between the end of S5 and A Christmas Carol and is part of my 'All Roads Lead Home' universe. :D Enjoy!


It starts with a dress.

Amy and Rory are safely aboard The Thrasymachus, a cruise ship in the 44th century. "It's the height of the Alpha class," the booking agent assured them as they arranged for their friends to occupy the honeymoon suite. "Nothing can go wrong."

Rose kept her misgivings to herself (because where has she heard that before) and cheerfully handed over the psychic paper when the agent requested payment (she's never considered the ethical ramifications of paying via imaginary money, but even in 21st century earth currency is fiat and thus might as well be imaginary, and besides—she and the Doctor have saved the universe often enough to cover two weeks of luxury). Having unlimited credit made the process surprisingly smooth, and less than an hour later their friends are celebrating in style and she and the Doctor are off again to celebrate in their own way.

Even in their jeopardy-friendly life, getting erased from the universe and then brought back is fairly serious. Rose knows the theory, of course; the Doctor explained it to her after he left little Amelia lying on her bed, convinced the whole thing was a dream. Like Gwenyth and the rift, Amy had grown up right on top of one of the cracks. She'd become part of it, in a way, and that gave her power over it—enough power, as it turned out, to manipulate the echo of the cracks and bring them back. Not that he'd been certain at the time. It was a Hail Mary pass and when he gives her the odds he'd calculated (about 50/50) she very nearly regenerates him, right there and then (she forgives him nearly as quickly, because if it's ever a choice between them and the universe she'd pick the universe too—and because he didn't even try to send her away).

But back to the dress.

It is waiting for her, laid out on the bed, when she returns to their room to grab the book she'd been reading before they'd been summoned to the Pandorica (she'd been anticipating a bit of down time—saving the world can be exhausting, after all). Rose holds up the hanger to take a closer look and she can't stop the smile that spreads over her face. It's a lovely shade of magenta, that dress, and in a style that screams 'retro.' Burgundy and baby-pink stripes highlight the cinched waist and flattering pleats. The halter-style top leaves her arms and a healthy triangle of her back exposed. It fits like a dream and comes with a pair of burgundy leather gloves—opera length—and demure baby-pink pumps. She runs her hands down the sides of the snug bodice and over the crisp pleats that start at her hips and squints at the mirror. Hair up, definitely, and maybe a string of pearls to complete the 50's housewife look.

"I thought you'd like it." The Doctor's voice makes her jump and she turns to glare at him. He's standing in the doorway, ankles and arms crossed, one hip against the doorframe and it reminds her so much of himself that she's breathless for a moment.

And then she notices. "You've changed your jacket."

He has. He's actually changed his entire wardrobe (she can count on one hand the number of times he's done so, in all the years she's traveled with him, and still have fingers to spare). The tweed jacket is gone, replaced with something that's charcoal grey and might bet wool with pinstripes of the same color. Rose rubs the cuff between her fingers and yes, that's definitely wool. The bowtie stayed, and she can't say that she's surprised, but it matches the jacket and vest. His shirt is pale blue with the same charcoal grey pinstripes as his suit, and he's got some ridiculous pieces of red cloth in his pocket twisted up to look like an abstract artist's version of a rose (it matches the burgundy stripes in her dress and she's pleased, a bit, that he took the time to consider her outfit, to consider changing at all).

Out of everything he's wearing, it's the leather gloves that get to her—soft and supple and the same color as his suit. There's a button at the end of a strap that wraps around his wrist. They're so restrained, correct—repressed.

It's sexy as hell.

Rose can't let him see it, of course. He's got an ego the size of a large planet and she's not above playing hard to get. Hunger is the best sauce, and all that.

"So, where are we going?" she asks and turns back to admire her reflection in the mirror.

"Bit if of a 1950's revival in 32nd century," he replies and move close enough that the lapels of his jacket brush against the exposed skin of her back. "Thought we could take a look around, soak up some local color." There's something hooked over his arm, is it—yes, it is—an umbrella. "There's spectacular food, too. Not on the same level as the fourth great and bountiful human empire, but not bad either. Nothing to sneeze at, though on Paxilon-delta sneezing is a sign of the deepest respect and…"

She moves to cut him off before he can get lost in an informative but irrelevant ramble. "Sounds lovely. Give me ten minutes, yeah? I need to fix my hair."

"Fix your hair, powder your nose." He kisses the crown of her head and gets a mouthful of blond hair for his troubles. "All of those lovely human euphemisms," he continues after he makes a face—her shampoo isn't Time Lord taste bud friendly, not anymore. "I'll be in the console room. Don't take too long or we'll be late!"

"Time Machine!" she calls at his retreating back. It's an old argument, and a fond one, and she's smiling when she turns back to the mirror and reaches for her brush.


They land in 3149 just down the road from what used to be the Sears Tower in the city of Chicago (it's changed names more than twenty times in the past thousand years but the historic plate on the side of the building calls it by that name and Rose tends to agree). They have reservations for later that evening in the restaurant on the top floor. Well, the Doctor says reservations, but Rose doesn't miss the way his hand strays to the pocket of his jacket wherein the psychic paper rests, along with his sonic screwdriver and other esoteric devices (she asked once what he had in his pockets, and two hours later he was still pulling bits and bobs out—they're bigger on the inside, after all). She smirks but doesn't challenge him; it's all part and parcel of having a renegade Time Lord for a lover.

They walk down Michigan Avenue and window shop. It's July but the breeze over Lake Michigan keeps the heat from being oppressive, at least for Rose. Superior Time Lord Physiology keeps the Doctor comfortable in all but the most extreme temperatures. The sky is clear but he holds onto the umbrella anyway, just in case. All around them men and women in sharp business suits and delicate dresses go about the daily business of living. Sleek hovercars with elegantly rounded lines follow precise flight patterns on the ground and overhead and highly polished chromes is everywhere—outlining doors on vehicles and buildings alike, reflecting the afternoon sun on belts and handbags, glittering on fingers and necks and earlobes.

He keeps his hand at the center of her back, over the triangle of skin her dress leaves exposed and it's strange, feeling the smooth, warm leather instead of his skin. Her hair is curled and pinned up, leaving her neck open as well and she can feel his eyes on her like a caress. She'd like to feel his lips there too, but he kisses her once on the forehead and that's it. Apparently there's been a revival of 1950's morals too, which is greatly disappointing as she'd really like to peel his suit off and have her way with him. Rose is pretty sure that he's frustrated as well—she can feel the tension in his hand and the way he brushes against her far too casually and too often to be truly accidental, but they haven't had to run for their lives yet, and she'd really like to keep it that way.

Later, then. She can wait until later.

Maybe.


Dinner is lovely and the restaurant is unbelievably posh and she will never, ever get used to this. He pulls out her chair because he's a bit of a gentleman this time around, and a little old fashioned. She doesn't object because he will never make a declaration, not like Pete made for her mum, but he tells her every day that he loves her in the little things. He orders (Rose doesn't know what half the items on the menu are—she never made it past the 26th century for an extended period of time) and whatever it is—the food is delicious. They sit across from each other with a nearly perfect view of the city at sunset and eat holding hands. At first she doesn't even notice—it's so natural to lay her arm across the table and run her fingers over his palm—but after her third glass of wine the sweep of his fingertips across her wrist raises goosebumps down her entire arm and Rose gives up concentrating on her food.

She concentrates instead on warmth that has settled in the pit of her stomach, the product of good food and relaxation, on the slight buzz of the alcohol in her system, and the intoxicating presence of the man across from her. He circles her palm delicately with one finger, traces a line down the center and strokes. Her tongue flicks out, moistens her lips. His eyes drift down her face and follow its motion and his mouth falls open, just a bit. Rose slips her right foot out of her beautiful shoe. The restaurant has tablecloths which brush the floor. She intends to take full advantage of this.

His eyes widen as she glides her foot over the thin material of his trousers, calf then knee then thigh, until she is poised over his zipper. The Doctor's hand slides up hers until he has his ring finger over her pulse at her wrist. She has his attention now. Lightly, so lightly, Rose traces the line of his zipper. She presses again, just a little harder, and there it is—she can feel him harden under the sole of her foot.

He asks for the check shortly after that.

She continues to trace the line of his cock through his trousers as he talks to the bubbly young woman who served them. He stutters once when she presses down firmly and his fingers on her wrist tighten. There's an edge to his eyes that she likes, a simmering sort of pressure with explosive potential. The Doctor casts a look her way when the waitress disappears for a moment to get their receipt and Rose can't stop the sharp intake of breath as his eyes travel purposefully from her lips to her chest and back up again.


They don't make it to the TARDIS.

Honestly Rose is surprised they managed to wait until they were safely ensconced in the lift before breaking the tension. As soon as the doors shut the sonic screwdriver is in his hand and he waves it in the direction of the controls. Sparks shoot out for a moment and then the lift grinds to a halt.

She's on him before it stops, pressed up against him with one hand winding through his ridiculous hair and the other gripping his shoulder. His hands slid down her sides, grazing her breasts, to rest at her waist and he nudges her until her back hits the elevator's cold metal wall. It's a shock but it fails to phase her. There's no time for leisurely exploration or casual touches—he's been deliberately teasing he the entire time and she's been giving as good as she's gotten and she wants him now.

It helps that she knows he doesn't wear pants under those beautifully tight trousers. It helps that she's not wearing knickers either, or a bra (and she knows he's noticed, she caught the little smirk that flashed across his face when he realized). His hands move to the zip but she pulls them away, puts them back on her hips and unfastens his trousers herself. He lets his hands roam up to her breasts, kneads them through the fabric of her dress and scrapes his thumb over her nipples.

Rose moans, a breathy little noise that draws a satisfied grin from him. Not to be outdone, she wraps her hand around his cock and strokes him. He inhales sharply and begins pulling her dress up.

It takes longer than she thought it would, and he mutters several uncomplimentary things about dresses and fashions and "the next planet we visit is going to be Frillion, Rose, they've got the best nude beaches in the galaxy."

She runs her hand through his hair, scratches his scalp with her nails and then his trousers are down around his ankles and he's finally managed to find the end of her skirt and one leg is hiked up around his hip and he's sliding in, in at last. Time does strange things—speeds up and slows down, syncs to their breathing and heartsbeat and sometimes nearly stops, hovering at the edge of some vast chasm, but then she slips a hand between them and he hits her clit in just the right way and she's coming apart in his arms.

He follows shortly after, and then the only sound is the thunder of blood rushing through their veins and heavy breaths echoing off the walls around them. They stay for a while, sweaty and entwined, and let the endorphins dissipate. He retrieves a handkerchief from one of his pockets and they clean themselves off. She fishes the sonic out of his pocket and aims it at the control panel, frowning in concentration. The lift hums back to life and she grins.

"Not bad," he allows and zips his trousers back up.

She gives him her very best tongue-touched smile. "Didn't anyone tell you? I'm dead clever."

He sniffs. "I knew that."

Rose leans into the Doctor and he takes her hand. "Reckon you knew it before I did."

"You've always been clever, my Rose." He presses a kiss to her temple. "That, back there in the restaurant—marvelously clever."

"M a quick study." She stands on her tip toes so she can whisper in his ear. "Let me show you, yeah? On the TARDIS?"

The lift doors recede with a cheery 'ding,' and he pulls her out into the fading light. "Magnificent!" he exclaims, and then they're off, running to their next adventure.

The Doctor and Rose Tyler in the TARDIS, as it should be.