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The quiet rattle of a key in the lock is all it takes to jerk Rose from her restless half-sleep. Her laptop, still displaying a live data feed from Torchwood HQ, tumbles from the sofa but she ignores it, racing to fling open the door.
"Rose?" the Doctor says, blinking. He pockets his key absently. "I thought you'd be in bed." He's a mess, his suit torn and muddy, dark smudges under his eyes.
All the things she thought she'd say catch in her throat. When he told her on Bad Wolf Bay, just weeks ago, that he only had one life, she never stopped to consider how short it might be. Half of her wants to crush him into a hug and never let go, and the other half wants to shake him until his teeth rattle. She crosses her arms firmly instead. "What the hell did you think you were doing? You could have been killed."
His lips quirk. "I'm glad to see you, too." He kisses the top of her head and brushes past her into their flat. "Please tell me you ordered in. I'm starving."
She follows him into the kitchen and watches him rummage in the refrigerator. "Doctor, I'm serious. You left your team behind."
"They knew nothing about dealing with mud-breathing aliens," he says around a mouthful of cold pizza.
"They were your backup."
"It was a delicate situation."
"And you needed them! I saw the reports. When they finally tracked you down, they had to drag you out of there."
"Yes, well—"
"Unconscious."
"Does Pete give you access to everything?" he mutters. "Fine. I wasn't expecting quite that much hostility. But I talked them into leaving. Your lot with the guns, they would have overreacted." He pops the last bite of pizza crust into his mouth and brushes his hands on his ruined suit. "Anyway, I'm fine."
"This time! If you get hurt, you won't regenerate. You're not—"
"Him?" he says bitterly. "I know."
"Then stop pretending you are!" That's too far, she knows it, her mouth snaps shut in horror but it's too late. He flinches and she reaches out to him, desperate to take it back. "I didn't mean it like that."
He avoids her eyes. "I'm going to wash off this dirt," he says, and turns on his heel.
Rose sags against the counter, burying her face in her hands. Could she possibly have handled that any worse? This isn't the reception she planned on giving him when he returned from his first field mission.
In the distance she hears the steady noise of water running, and nothing else. Not the cap of the shampoo bottle snapping open, not a dropped bar of soap, not even a change in the rhythm of the water. She should give him some space; they both need time to cool off. But the silence goes on and on, and before she knows it she's tiptoeing through their bedroom to the en-suite. He looked awful; what if he's passed out?
Cautiously, she eases open the bathroom door, peering through the haze of steam. He's just standing there under the spray, facing away from her, his hands limp at his sides. She should go. He's fine.
No, he's not. She makes up her mind and steps through the doorway. The Doctor glances over his shoulder, watching her with a wary vulnerability that makes her chest ache. She can't stand it, and she can't think of a damned thing that will make it better. What finally comes out is the most inane thing possible. "Wash your back?" Her voice wavers, and the hard set of his jaw softens fractionally; he shrugs one shoulder before turning back toward the wall.
Rose undresses and steps into the shower without waiting for a more enthusiastic invitation. Pulling the glass door shut behind her, she picks up a flannel, reaching awkwardly around him to wet it in the shower spray. She soaps it up and runs it over his neck and shoulders, trying to ease the tension in them, scrubbing away a smear of dried mud. She goes lightly over a darkening bruise on his shoulder blade, trying not to think about how he got it. When she finds a knotted muscle and works it loose he makes a funny little sound, a kind of moaning sigh; encouraged, she wrings out the cloth and moves lower, gliding down the small of his back. She pauses just short of the curve of his buttocks; a trail of soap suds continues the journey, but she hesitates.
"Turn around?" she says, but he makes a noncommittal noise, lifting his face into the shower spray. Apparently he hasn't relented quite so far as to want to look at her. Sighing, she soaps up the flannel again and reaches around to wash his chest.
When she grazes a hard nipple, she feels his sudden indrawn breath. Oh. So that's how it is. She rinses the flannel under the shower spray, then slides it over the tense muscles of his stomach, feeling him twitch with an involuntary laugh as she dips into his navel. When her hand drifts lower, reaching the curly hair at his groin, he becomes very still again.
She leans in and kisses the mole between his shoulder blades, the one she never saw on his other body. "Turn around," she repeats, very gently this time, and he does.
She tries to keep her eyes on his face, though it's hard to ignore his obvious arousal. He looks so young, wet hair flattened to his forehead, his eyes wide and dark, a little uncertain but not at all embarrassed.
More sure of herself now, she starts again on his chest, running the wet cloth over the shadows of his ribs. He's always been skinny, but now he's almost gaunt; they'll have to do better than cold pizza later, she thinks. First things first, though. She traces the light line of hair below his navel, following it down, and his Adam's apple bobs as the flannel grazes his hard cock. She swirls the cloth around him, then takes a gentle grip, pulling up and sliding back down. Both of his hands go to the tile behind him for support as his hips follow the motion.
He's beautiful, his mouth half open, eyes drifting shut, water cascading from his shoulders and running down to where her hand is curled around him. She licks her lips and starts stroking faster, ready to finish this right now if that's what he needs, but he reaches out a shaky hand and takes the flannel from her.
"I think I'm clean," he rasps, and gestures for her to turn around. He brushes her hair over her shoulders in a futile attempt to keep it dry—did she imagine the touch of lips on her newly exposed neck?—and then the soapy cloth starts on her back. He does a sketchier job of it than she did, moving down her spine with a few long strokes, giving her arse a slippery squeeze; there's no doubt where all of this is going. The slick slide of the flannel over her breasts is delicate, not lingering, but he leans closer to her, the water slippery between their bodies, his cock hot and hard against her lower back. He rinses off the flannel and strokes it down her belly, across her inner thigh as she reflexively parts her legs. She closes her eyes in anticipation as he moves up, up, nudging between her folds; the cloth is warm and wet, somehow soft and rough at the same time, and her whole body jerks the first time it touches her clit. He holds on, pressing gently as he rocks with her, and she knows he can feel every reaction of her body as she quivers against him.
One wet finger finds its way beneath the cloth, stroking, testing; she's slick with more than soap and water, and with a groan he drops the flannel. He bends her forward, guides her hands to the cool tile of the wall. His cock presses awkwardly against her, the angle not quite right, but then she lifts her hips and he gives a sudden push and all at once he's in. She gasps at the suddenness of it but he's already pulling back for another sharp thrust, another, until he's driving into her with no restraint at all, a headlong rush to a conclusion that can't be far away. She can't keep up but she doesn't care, he's here, he's alive, and right now all she needs is this.
"Rose," he says urgently, and she's not sure if it's a plea or a warning but then it's too late to matter. He comes with a choked cry, the wet pulse of him within her making her shudder, his hips slamming forward like he's got to be as deeply inside her as he possibly can. When it's over he stays there, pulling her upright so he can wrap his arms tightly around her, burying his face in the side of her neck as his erection slowly fades. She finds herself stroking his arm, rocking them both back and forth, whispering soothing nonsense that he probably can't hear over the rushing water anyway.
Eventually his lips start moving softly against her neck, and she can't help shivering. "You didn't come," he murmurs in her ear, sounding more like himself.
She extricates herself enough to turn around and look at him. "I don't mind," she starts to say, but the slow smile spreading across his face silences her.
He drops to his knees and kisses her belly, her wet curls, the inside of her thigh as he hitches one of her legs over his shoulder. She leans back, suddenly grateful for the ridiculous little non-skid decals he insisted on putting in the tub.
His fingers spread her open and his hot breath is on her and then, oh god, his tongue. It's everywhere, sliding and flicking and caressing; it even dips inside her, lapping, and she feels a sudden rush of wetness. It's almost too much, too intimate, but he's so clearly enjoying it, making little murmurs of encouragement that send sparks straight through to the core of her. He's so good at this, the pleasure's building so fast she doesn't even have to reach for it, she can just relax and let it wash over her, carrying her higher and higher. Finally he draws her clit between his lips, sucking in quick pulses, and that's it, she's coming, burying her hands in his wet hair and trying not to buck.
She comes down slowly, aware of his tongue still lazily stroking her clit; he waits until he's drawn out every last tremor before easing her leg back down and getting to his feet. She's still catching her breath when he turns off the shower and leans out to fetch a couple of towels.
"I'm sorry," she says, echoing in the sudden quiet. "I shouldn't have jumped on you."
The corner of his mouth twitches and she hastily corrects herself. "Before. I shouldn't have yelled. I was just so worried." She lays her hand helplessly over his single heart. This must be how he felt all the time, when she was the only fragile one. It takes some getting used to.
"Even though you were right?" he says wryly, tucking his towel around his waist. He wraps the other one around Rose, and pulls her into his arms.
"Even though." She glances up at him. "You're not indestructible. That's all I was going to say, earlier. Not... anything else."
His arms tighten around her, and she sighs, letting the last of her tension dissipate. "Maybe we should try this again." She slips her hand behind his neck and pulls him down for a long kiss, soft and languid. "I'm so glad you're safe." She rests her forehead against his. "Now try to stay that way."
"I will." He smiles, but his eyes are serious. "Rose, I'll get it right eventually. We have time."
She slips her hand into his, and trusts that they do.