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It's not the most comfortable position, curled up on the narrow sofa with the Doctor curled around her, but Rose wouldn't move for the world. He has his arm wrapped around her, since there's no room not to, and the crisp fabric of his shirt brushes pleasantly against her skin. He's talking, but she's not really paying attention, just listening to the rise and fall of his voice as he tells her about the places they'll go ("the best chips in the galaxy, Rose") tomorrow. Or maybe not tomorrow, but soon.
When she's feeling better.
Best not to think about that. She takes a deep breath, tries to let the old-book and fireplace smell of the TARDIS library comfort her. Beneath it is the familiar scent of the Doctor, accompanied by just a hint of sweat; he hasn't taken time to shower or change since they fled Apraxis, barely ahead of their pursuers. As soon as the TARDIS dematerialised they went straight to the med bay, where more scans and tests than Rose could keep track of confirmed his diagnosis.
She turns her face toward the dry warmth of the fire, listening to the quiet crackle, the Doctor's low voice. The only thing missing is the flicker of light and shadow against her closed eyelids.
Carefully, she touches the bandage across her eyes. It's only there as a precaution, she repeats to herself. Probably. The Doctor gently pulls her hand away, curling his fingers around hers. "Just an optic nerve stun, Rose. No damage. You'll be fine in the morning."
He's calm, patient, just like the last ten times he reassured her. But what if he's just saying that to make her feel better? However much he protests that he wouldn't lie to her, she wouldn't really put it past him, not if he thinks it's for her own good. Maybe he wants her to rest tonight, face devastating realities tomorrow. Maybe he's trying to convince himself. Maybe he's wrong. And if she can't see, if she can't run...
He'll have to take her home. No more TARDIS, no more wonders of the universe. No more Doctor.
The Doctor exhales, breath stirring her hair. "Just relax," he murmurs, rubbing her bare arm lightly. The library is warm, so warm she's wearing only a camisole and pyjama bottoms, but she's got goose bumps. He starts, well, petting her, running his hand down her arm over and over, like he's trying to calm a frightened animal. It's not exactly relaxing, but it certainly is distracting. That's probably not the effect he meant to have, but it's a welcome diversion from her anxiety, so she focuses on his touch, on how close his fingers come to brushing the side of her breast, on the way her nipple tightens even though he hasn't come anywhere near it yet.
His hand wanders down her side, smoothing down her silky camisole, lingering briefly over the inch of bared midriff below. Back up, and his thumb pushes the fabric up slightly, sweeps underneath. Rose swallows hard, pretends not to pay attention to what he's doing as he runs his hand over her hip and thigh. He's stopped talking, and any moment now things are probably going to get awkward. But there's something hypnotic about the rhythm of his stroking hand, and he seems caught up in it too.
She's not sure he's even aware of what he's doing when he casually starts to trace the crease between her bum and the back of her leg. Suddenly her heart is beating very fast. If she tenses, if she speaks, if she does anything at all, he might come back to himself and stop, but he doesn't. As though it's the most natural thing in the world, his hand drifts around to the drawstring of her pyjama bottoms and loosens it. She stops breathing entirely.
"Rose," he says reprovingly. "You're not relaxing."
"Help me out, then," she says, a little surprised at her own boldness. They've only done anything like this once before, and they never spoke about it afterward. Some things, she thinks, are easier in the dark. She understands it better now, what drove him in that little bunk on the Sanctuary Base when he thought he'd lost everything.
"Shhh," he whispers, as though he's followed her train of thought. His hand slides into her knickers, cupping her with soft pressure; one cool finger slips between her labia, settling a maddening half-inch above her clit. She tenses with anticipation, but all it does is rest there, warming with the heat of her body. His thumb idly strokes her pubic hair, and he seems content to stay like that, holding her in front of the fire with his cheek resting on top of her head and his hand in her knickers.
Just when she thinks the waiting is going to drive her mad, his fingertip stirs, begins to move in tiny circles. Even that faint, indirect pressure jolts through her, makes her clit throb and ache for more; the Doctor murmurs something soothing, keeping up his steady, gentle movements, and she finds herself relaxing into it, letting go of all her other thoughts as she feels herself swelling and slickening and opening to him. The circles he's rubbing slowly grow larger, until she lets out a moan of relief as he finally, finally sweeps over her clit.
He's breathing almost as heavily as she is, and she's not at all surprised to become aware of a hard lump pressing against her arse. He seems to realise that she can feel it about the same time she does; at least, he shifts away from her, as much as he can with the back of the sofa right behind him. Though he keeps stroking her, his movements are a little slow and distracted; she thinks she hears a rustle, the whisper of a zip, but it's so quiet she can't be sure.
And she has to know. Twisting partway around, she reaches back and confirms what she suspected: his opened trousers, the taut, stretched fabric of his pants. He hisses as her exploring fingers outline the shape beneath the cloth. She feels her way up to his waistband, wriggles her fingers underneath and grazes warm, hard skin. She wishes desperately that she could see his face.
"Rose." He sounds a bit strangled. "This wasn't supposed to be about me."
"Please," she says, and that's all it takes. He groans and pushes her back onto her side, yanking her pyjamas down. Her knickers get tangled around her knees, but he pulls her leg up a tiny bit and then his cock is pushing at her, sliding through her wetness, trying to get in. He fumbles, tries again, so close. Desperate to feel him, she presses her thighs together, trapping his cock between them; he's hard and slick and the friction when he thrusts against her is glorious, even if it's not exactly where she wants it most.
The Doctor gives an inarticulate cry; his finger comes back to her clit, rubbing frantically, and she realises that they aren't going to roll over and try to get her knickers off. He's pushing between her thighs in quick thrusts, working at her clit with a firm insistence that's impossible to resist; it's not very many strokes later when she stiffens, squeezing her legs together as she comes. The Doctor holds on tight, gives a shuddering gasp, and she feels him climax in a surge of wet warmth.
They lie still together for a while in the aftermath, and then the Doctor coughs. "Sorry, I—sorry," he mutters. He produces what feels like a silk handkerchief and cleans them both up, then helps her get her pyjamas sorted and zips himself away.
"Don't be sorry," Rose says sleepily, pulling his arm back around her.
He kisses her shoulder. "Think you can rest now?"
"Mmm." She doesn't think she can help it, actually. It's a struggle to stay awake. "See you…" She yawns enormously, tries to remember what she was saying. "…in the morning."
His last words follow her down into sleep. "You will."