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Sunday, Domestic

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"...And sex on Sunday afternoons."

Rose chuffed. "Well, he's a right bastard," she said, then registered that she'd just heard a voice, and looked up from the book she was reading. (It was the Doctor's autographed copy of "A Midsummer Night's Dream," but that wasn't the reason she was hiding it behind a copy of "Cosmo for Humans".)

The Doctor was sulking against the wall a few feet away from her, leather jacket collar tugged high, arms folded, long frame tense and blue eyes smoldering. Rose wondered that there wasn't a law against someone being that sexy without knowing it. It wasn't fair to innocent humans, having a Time Lord wander into a laundromat on a lazy Sunday and be all gorgeous and brooding at them.

"'Lo," Rose offered.

"You're right, he is a bastard, and it's all his fault, anyway."

She blinked at the Doctor in utter confusion, and then what'd he actually said registered. However, the Doctor talking about sex did absolutely nothing for her bewilderment - except triple it. After a moment of watching him glare ineffectually down the street through the huge front windows, she decided she'd imagined the first bit, and maybe he was reading the cover of her magazine or something.

She turned it over, but all it said was that it contained hair and makeup tips for job interviews on mixed colonies, an article on what wines to select with what gravity, and a section on how to flirt even if you're the only human in the room. OK. So maybe he knew she'd borrowed his book. "I didn't know it was his fault, though. I've not gotten very far..."

"Well, it is," the Doctor snarked, eyes snapping back to hers. "If he wouldn't insist on going places where you end up drenched, coated in goo, painted green, or naked..."

Rose's confusion got even worse as the Doctor trailed off, staring into space with a very strange expression on his face. Finally, not knowing what else to do, she got up, put her book down on the chair behind her, and crossed to lean next to him. "Who're we talking about?" she asked.

"What?" said the Doctor, looking down at Rose as if he had no idea where she'd come from.

Rose sighed, about to explain to the Doctor that he could start making sense whenever he was ready, but the washer/dryer/thingee buzzed and got her attention. She walked past the snoozing Araxi couple - they were sleeping together in a giant salad bowl while they waited for their son to dry - stepped around the bored attendant whose mind was, quite literally, elsewhere - he'd sent it with his partner to the grocery, though Rose wasn't sure she wanted to know how that worked - and finally approached her machines with trepidation.

A fiftieth century laundromat hadn't originally been her idea of the most interesting place to spend an afternoon, but Rose was really starting to rethink that idea. For one thing, the people were unique, strange, and wonderful, though not necessarily in that order. For another, there was probably no where else in the sane universe where you could argue with the telly only to have him argue back (he'd turned out to be rather nice after Rose got him to change the channel). Finally, the Doctor had said something about sex and, for all it didn't make any sense at the moment, there was always the slight possibility that he meant something and even if he didn't, his voice saying those words would be lovely fantasy material for later.

"I was reading an article," Rose lied over her shoulder while she popped open the machine door to check the clothes. They were perfect, all nice and warm and smelling like dryer sheets. She started unloading them into a helpful antigrav basket that pulled up in front of the open door for her (giving her a squeaky 'thank you' as it did so).

One of these days she was going to have to make the Doctor put the TARDIS one back together. He'd taken it apart, claiming it had a "slight glitch" when one wash load came back not with just strange socks, but with something Rose would've sworn was Dobby the House Elf wearing them. Until then, it was going to Mum's or stopping at laundromats, and so far, the Doctor had chosen to try to wait her out, instead.

He'd had to give up in the end when they'd fought it out for a couple of hours up and down the TARDIS corridors, mostly shouting 'Fine!' at each other and slamming doors. (Their arguments were almost always very stupid.) What had actually made him surrender was the shout of 'short skirts and dirty knickers' across the breakfast table and/or Jack's offer to hand-wash them for her. Jack'd gotten banished from the table like a bratty eight year old, sent to his room with a bowl of oatmeal. Rose, however, had gotten blushed and blustered at, and finally, well, here they were.

It was true, though. She didn't have a single clean pair of jeans, and all her knickers had been hand washed enough, thanks. It just wasn't the same thing. So she was standing here in the laundromat in a short skirt and (though she'd never tell anyone) no knickers at all.

She filled up the little cart and shoved it over toward the table next to her bench, pulled open the machine with her jeans in them, found they needed a little longer, and waved the little credit stick the Doctor'd given her at the timer. It did whatever it was money matters did in the fiftieth century and added another fifteen minutes.

Rose set to folding her tees and putting her other shirts on hangers from the TARDIS. After a moment, the sulking Time Lord stopped sulking and came over to help her. That was all there was to it. One minute, he was sulking against the wall, the next he was calmly and quickly shaking the wrinkles out of her favorite long-sleeved tee, and then folding it as competently and neatly as a former shop girl from a department store could envy.

Rose decided not to point it out to him, lest they be right back to where they started. "Where's Jack gone this time?" she wondered.

The Doctor looked at her little yellow tank-top in his hands as if it'd burned him, dropped it back on the pile, and slumped down next to her magazine. "Gone off, somewhere. The prat."

"And by somewhere, of course you mean drinks, dancing, and - in Jack's case - people of loose morals."

"Where'd you pick that phrase up?" the Doctor asked, grinning at her.

Some book, somewhere, probably. "My gran, most likely. Sounds the sorta thing she'd say, though it'd be 'women', of course."

"Of course," the Doctor agreed.

"Why're you mad at him, then?" Rose wondered, two polo shirts and a hoodie later.

"How can you read this?" the Doctor asked. He nudged her magazine away with the toe of his boot as he pulled his feet up onto the bench.

Rose folded one of his jumpers and ignored him. He prodded the already folded piles of laundry in the basket with curious fingers and the sonic screwdriver. Rose folded another jumper. The Doctor stood up, paced around the bench, and came back. Rose folded one of his undershirts. The Doctor stalked up beside her, grabbed one of Jack's tee shirts, and started folding.

"How'd you get bullied into doing everyone's laundry?" he wondered.

Rose shrugged, wondering if he was complaining or not, since she couldn't tell from his tone of voice. "It was what was in the laundry room, so I grabbed it all since I was coming here anyways, yeah? The TARDIS left that detergent you like and stuff out for me, so don't get your knickers in a twist."

The Doctor snagged a pair of boxer briefs out of her hand and folded them quickly and neatly, making them disappear in a matter of seconds. Easy guess whose those were, then. Rose poked him in the side.

The Doctor grinned at her. "Sorry, looked more like it was you gonna get my knickers in a twist," he said playfully.

Rose snickered. "Only if you want me to," she flirted.

The Doctor's grin widened. Rose sometimes wondered if he loved this game even more than she did. "See, there you go, gettin' me hopes up an' all."

That was usually his signal that he was surrendering, planning to change the subject. However, Rose could see challenge in the set of his shoulders as he folded the rest of his pants and she started trying to mate socks. "Just your hopes?" she asked, grinning up at him, her tongue teasing at the edge of her smile.

The Doctor laughed out loud at this, blue eyes dancing as he graced Rose with that rare delight. It was one of her favorite things, making the Doctor laugh. It made her feel like she'd done something important, something special. It made her happy to make him happy.

"I needed that," he said after a moment.

Rose bit her tongue over what she wanted to say, and instead said, "Glad I could help, then."

"Well, it's just..." He frowned, then shrugged. Rose went over to tug the finally dry jeans out of the machine. "It's Jack," the Doctor finally confessed when Rose got back.

Rose loved Jack, but some days she really wanted to kill him, at least a little. "What'd he do now?" she wondered. With the Doctor and Jack, it could be absolutely anything, from flirting too hard in public to things she didn't want to know about.

"Said he's 'taking a vacation,' claimed we've gone completely domestic."

He'd said the 'D' word to the Doctor. Killing was too good for him. "Oh, god," she groaned. "What'd you do to him?"

"Nothing," the Doctor confessed grouchily. "He was already half-way out the door when he said it, but I know we've not gone domestic. I made a list."

"Of things that would make us domestic?" asked the woman who was folding his jeans.

The Doctor - the man who was neatly sorting the linens from the bed they shared - was apparently aggressively determined about this. "Yeah. Wasn't a long list, just things that would absolutely prove we were domestic. A mortgage, stealing my razor, sharing toothbrushes, decisions on getting pets..."

"Anybody who shares toothbrushes isn't domestic, they're desperate," Rose said. "And I only stole your razor once." To her credit, she hadn't borrowed it to shave her legs but to get an inked-in logo off a priceless primitive idol, thankfully made of heavily polished glass, before the Doctor got executed as the tagger.

He wasn't paying attention, had gotten the topic in his teeth and was worrying at it fiercely. "Fighting over money or exes or parents. Goin' on trips with the parents, speakin' of..."

"If either Jack or Adam count as an ex or a pet, we've been there, too, not to mention Mum and Mickey. And frankly, I'd rather die than go traveling with her. Hell, if we did, we probably would, battleship mouth, yeah?"

"Taking time out from saving the world to have a domestic, nagging, talking over each other in public..."

"And that has never happened," Rose muttered sarcastically while neatly packing up her book and leaving her magazine for the next unsuspecting human.

"Matching outfits, flowers to make up for a fight neither of us can remember, breakfast in bed..." He appeared to be in the home stretch now, so Rose just shook her head, straightened her jumper, and let him rant.

Triumphantly, and with the flourish of topping the basket with a huge stack of neatly folded laundry, the Doctor finished, "And sex on Sunday afternoons."

He held out a hand, apparently inviting Rose to be amazed with his logic. "That's amazing, yeah," she agreed, watching him getting all smug and self-satisfied. This was one rug that really needed yanking. She waited until his ego had reached maximum every day width and pulled out a hat pin. "You do know we done like... half the things on that list, yeah?" The Doctor's face fell, his mouth open as if to deliver a retort that he couldn't find anywhere. Rose patted his cheek. "More'n half, really. Depends on if Jack counts as a pet or not."

Shrugging, the Doctor said, "If he doesn't, that Adam definitely was. Some sorta house weasel, anyway, too small for a proper one, but I'd at least make him a ferret."

"So, then we decided about pets. We took him back."

The Doctor glared at her, but now Rose was on a roll herself. "Beyond getting a mortgage and I'm never bringing you breakfast in bed 'til you earn it, I don't see what..."

"How'd'ya earn breakfast in bed, then? Can't be saving the world, I do that three times a week..."

"I help," Rose cut him off. "For starters, you gotta still be in the bed when I get out of it, that'd help."

"Oh, right." The Doctor grinned sheepishly, then frowned as he apparently remembered he was annoyed. Rose wasn't sure how she was going to get him out of the bad mood this time. "We do not have a mortgage!" he said proudly.

"We own our place. You stole her fair and square."

"Who told you I stole... she's gonna give away all my secrets." He groaned and hoisted one of the laundry baskets. "This all of it?"

Rose double checked the machines she'd been using, and the little anti-grav cart, to find them all empty. Chucking the smaller basket neatly onto her hip, she collected the bottles of detergent and fabric softener. "Yeah, c'mon."

"We still haven't gone completely domestic," the Doctor insisted one last time as he shoved the door open and held it for Rose.

"Well, since we still run for our lives a lot more often than most couples, and since last I checked we weren't even actually a couple, I'm sure you're right. Just your list needs revising."

"Just modifying a little," the Doctor claimed petulantly. "Not a complete revision."

Rose smiled and, because she really, really wanted to know, she gave up and asked, "Why Sunday afternoons?"


"Sex on Sunday afternoons," Rose quoted. It was quite the most delicious thing she'd ever heard the Doctor say, but it was just possible, what with it being Sunday afternoon... no, Rose, don't think it.

"Because!" the Doctor said, importantly.

The words were out of her mouth before she'd actually thought out how they'd sound. "And you're the ultimate authority on all kinds of sex, now?"

Rose had to force herself not to blush when three trees, a Z'raxi police-thing, and the Doctor all turned to stare at her. The trees and the police officer went on with their business. The Doctor gave her a grin that was good for three fantasies at least, and maybe a nice hot dream if he kept talking about Sunday sex while wearing it. "'Course I am," he said.

Rose gasped for breath and tried to keep her thighs together - she wasn't wearing any pants with the skirt, after all, and the Doctor's statement had just done things to her that Rose used to think only happened in trashy romances. "Y-you think you're so impressive." She managed to get her regular tease into it after a stuttering, high-pitched start, but she didn't think the Doctor would notice - or make the connection if he did.

This time, when he said, "I am so impressive," Rose had to hold her breath. He didn't say it defensively, like he had a reputation to uphold. He said it firmly, assertively, like it was an unshakable fact. To add to that, his tone was like finest dark chocolate, rich and smooth and sweet, with just that little bite to let you know it should be savored instead of devoured... Oh, god, she was a goner, this time, no question. If she was comparing his voice to food, when he was probably just trying to make a point...

How fast could she get away from him? Shower, immediately, and clean clothes? Was that a good excuse?

Miraculously, the TARDIS was right there in front of them, and the Doctor was unlocking the door. Rose breathed a sigh of relief at the perfect timing, before the Doctor's heightened senses could draw his attention to the feminine juices now streaking the insides of her thighs. She wasn't sure how she was going to get away from him, but she had to try.

"Sex on Sunday afternoons is the most domestic kind of sex," the Doctor was saying, apparently utterly oblivious to Rose's turmoil. "S'not like other kinds, where you can have 'em with a mate or a stranger, it's pretty much a get it at home sort of thing..."

"Monday morning at half five," Rose tossed out.

"Against a wall, half-way between the pub and the diner," he shot right back.

"You're worse than Jack."

"Oh no, I'm much better than Jack," the Doctor asserted, pushing the laundry basket into the jumpseat. If Rose didn't know better, she'd swear he was doing this on purpose.

"Um. Wednesday, three in the afternoon?" She knew she was being ridiculous now, but she couldn't help it. He would notice if she just darted past him and made for her room (their room), and might even follow her to give her a hand...

Which idea she also did not need to be... Those huge, calloused hands, sliding slowly between her knees, up the length of her thighs, tracing the slickness they found there, before he even reached her center...

"Over a desk." The Doctor shrugged. "But not Sunday afternoons. They're home an' lazy an' gettin' a few things done before the work week starts, an' newspapers..."

"And domestic sex," Rose squeaked as she set the basket down next to its mate, the supplies on the floor.

His voice quiet and grave and too near for him not to know that something was going on with her, the Doctor murmured, "Completely domestic."

Something snapped. Rose rounded on him, her posture as aggressive as it was open and as open as the invitation that slipped, unbidden, from the place she normally kept it caged. "Prove it."

"Thought you'd never ask." The Doctor's hands went to her hips, pulling her hard against him, revealing instantly that she wasn't the only one with obvious arousal problems. His left hand snaked around behind her, planting firmly on her bum and tilting her hips just so, and their bodies suddenly fit like designed.

"Oh god," Rose whimpered. Her hands weren't anywhere near so confused as her mind, one sliding up the front of his jumper, the other wrapping around his neck to pull him closer still.

"Say no, an' I walk away, an' this never happened," the Doctor murmured against her ear.

"You say no," Rose replied, pulling back to look into those warring, loving eyes. "If this is just you proving something, say no."

The Doctor's smile - not the mask, but the bright smile she'd only ever seen when they were alone - lit his face, lit his body, lit the room. "Figured I'd have to prove this, an' maybe prove it a few more times, other Sundays ya know, jus' to be sure..."

Rose smiled back, her heart taking flight in her chest, sending her weightless and breathless. "Good point," she agreed. "And then, we'll have to try all that other stuff, just to be sure we know the difference."

"Scientific method," the Doctor pronounced. "Very important. In fact, we'll probably have to try everything we can possibly imagine, just to see if I'm wrong."

"Important experiments," Rose murmured. Her mind wasn't on that at all, it was on his skin, smooth over hard muscle and bone, as she trailed her fingers over his chest.

"Exhaustive efforts, you understand."

"Oh definitely," Rose agreed and, because it had been tempting her off and on since she couldn't even remember when, she licked the hollow of the Doctor's throat. "Exhaustion. Good plan."

"God, do that," the Doctor gasped, throwing his head back.

Rose shivered. "This?" she asked, lapping at his throat again. The Doctor groaned. "Or this?" she added, smoothing the pad of her thumb over his nipple.

"Both, either... feels good." His hand snaked up and caught in her hair, tilting her head back.

His kiss was strong and determined, but not so aggressive as Rose had sometimes thought it would be. He was still holding back, she realized, and she didn't want that. She was losing her mind to the tidal force that was her and the Doctor together, and she wanted him out to sea with her.

She pressed her nails into the back of his neck, reveled in his kiss, writhing against him to let him know what he was doing to her. He tasted like want and tea and time, and she was perfectly happy to go on kissing him forever.

That was until she felt his hands on the back of her thighs. She squeaked against his lips when he touched her, then broke the kiss to squeal about it when he picked her up, guiding her onto the console. Rose grinned then, and set to putting her mark on his throat.

He groaned and ground himself against her. "Jeans," Rose muttered a complaint. It wasn't that she minded, it was just that the denim against her bare skin didn't make the best sort of friction.

"Jeans," the Doctor agreed. His hands went to the buttons of his fly, and then there was a loud chiming alarm from the console under Rose.

"No, nonono," she begged. "Please, don't..."

The Doctor laughed lightly, a beautiful, sensual sound that Rose had never before heard, but instantly loved as much as she loved him. "We're bein' told off, is all," he said apologetically. "C'mon, bedroom."

Gleefully, Rose threw her jumper off over her head as she danced across the room. The Doctor snatched it out of the air and flung it over a guard rail, tossing his after it. Rose grinned at the two shirts just hanging there, then grinned at the Doctor. "Catch me," she ordered, and took off into the corridors.

"You're askin' for it, Rose Tyler!" was shouted down the corridor after her.

She just laughed and darted for the door to their room, wondering if all these months of nigh constant running had made it so she could outrun the Doctor... guess not. His hands went around her waist, plucking her up like she weighed nothing. He didn't bother to shift his grip, just kicked the door open with one heavily booted foot, and carried her half-struggling, mostly giggling inside.

"Do I hafta turn you over my knee?" he growled against the back of her neck.

Another rush of damp arousal clenched deep inside her, and Rose whimpered to prevent a moan. "Maybe," she managed.

The Doctor loosened her bra, still without letting her go, and Rose lowered her arms to let it fall to the floor. Those elegant hands then went to the button and zip on the front of her skirt, and Rose started struggling a little. "Tickles," she gasped.

"Take it off," the Doctor whispered, letting her go at last. Instantly missing his touch, Rose nodded, and went to turn to look at him. He stopped her with a hand to the small of her back. "Please, just?"

Rose nodded and, swallowing hard, let her skirt fall to the floor. She heard a gasp behind her, and then just stood there for a moment. "Doctor?" she whispered.

"Shhh," he answered, from somewhere closer to the ground. She felt warm kissed pressed against her bum, first one cheek, then the other. His cool tongue traced a swirling, strange pattern down to her thigh.

Rose had to lean over to catch herself on the edge of the bed. "Oh, god," the Doctor muttered softly, and then Rose heard the familiar sound of him fighting with his boots. She'd wondered on more than one occasion why he wore them if he had such trouble with them, but she knew they were very comfy and part of his armor, and who really gave a fuck about boots at a time like this?

She looked back over her shoulder to tell the Doctor this but he seemed to have come to the same decision without advice. "Look at you, though," he murmured, smoothing a hand across the small of her back and down the curve of her bum. "Just look at you, so beautiful..." His hand slid lower still, tempting apart her thighs, and trailing through the slick, sticky mess collecting there. "And so wet," he groaned.

"Doctor," she breathed, the last syllable almost lost when his questing fingers found the quivering bundle of nerves at her center. "Doctor, I... Doctor?"

"Rose," he answered, his voice strained and nearly broken. "Was gonna... Rose, I..."

Rose turned around, took his face in her hands, kissed his lips lightly and gently. She sat down on the edge of the bed they'd been sharing since Van Statten's bunker, and beckoned him with dark eyes and crooked fingers, and the Doctor grinned at her, wild and wicked and hers.

There was the careful slide of a lowering zip - ah, the real reason he'd taken her to do laundry today - and the Doctor made a noise that sounded quite a lot like relief. Rose lowered her eyes to just look at him.

"What're you grinnin' about, then?" the Doctor asked, slipping closer to her, hands going to her hips to tug her closer still.

"You win," she said, gleefully. "You are so impressive."

The Doctor chuckled. "Got the moves, too," he promised darkly, and then there was the slow slide of the head of his cock up the inside of her thigh.

A second later he was in position, his eyes burning her as he watched her face. Rose was already arching toward him as he slowly rocked his hips to bring himself gently inside her. "Want you," she whispered. "So much... so long."

"I know, shhh, me too, I know." He leaned over her and kissed her, sliding home inside her as he did so.

Rose's keening moan was lost within the kiss. He filled her up and made her desperate for more at once, and she was drowning in him, and they'd hardly even gotten started.

"Precious girl," the Doctor murmured, cool hands teasing her nipples, cool cock heating within her warmth and making her boil inside. "Ready?" he whispered.

She bit her lip and nodded hard, her hands gripping his wrists as he leaned over and braced himself on the bed. "Don't do that," he added, and dragged his tongue across her lip. "Let me hear you."

"Doctor!" she complained, her hips jerking into motion against him. She didn't think she'd ever wanted anyone this much. She didn't know it was even possible to want anyone this much.

He grinned again and started to move at last, setting up a rhythm that was just like him - fast and hard and unstoppable. Also brilliant, Rose thought, as the angle he'd found for this seemed to rub her clit directly against his cock every single time he moved.

He was whispering things to her, soft and desperate secrets murmured in his chiming native language. She didn't have anything like that, so she just told him the complete truth, a litany of excited, erotic filth dripping from her lips with every driving thrust of his body into hers. She'd never felt so alive, her skin tingling with electricity, her fingers clutching her lovers' arms as they worked so hard together. Her lover! Her Doctor, her lover.

She couldn't concentrate on anything but how good this felt, how it was about to feel even more fantastic, any second. The Doctor's words trailed off into jagged exclamations, half swearing, half grunting. Her own voice was nothing but desperate moans and the occasional, whispered, "fuck!" Her hips drove to meet him, her orgasm looming just ahead, just one thrust, no, one more, ok, one. more. Thrust!

She detonated in an instant, a powerful explosion of ecstasy tumbling her beneath wave after wave of body-spasming pleasure. Even after she'd become reacquainted with reality, little shock waves of womb-tightening bliss hit her with every beat of her heart.

The Doctor pulled out of her, took himself in hand, and reached a loud and messy climax in only a few quick, punishing gestures. Rose thought he'd never looked so beautiful. She gave a tug at his wrists and, otherwise involved and over-balanced, he toppled onto the bed, half next to her, half on top of her.

"None o' that," the Doctor chided mildly. Then he kissed her, slowly and deeply, and Rose could feel all the words that weren't being said in the gentle, curious slide of their mouths exploring.

When he broke the kiss, he was laughing, his joy so contagious that Rose caught it herself and laughed with him, hilarious, beloved, ecstatic. He was still grinning as he rolled over onto his back at last and started kicking ineffectually at his boots.

"That wasn't the least bit domestic," Rose observed dryly. "Domestic sex's meant to be boring. Missionary position. Same old same old."

The Doctor gave her a concerned, considering look. "Really?"


"So we've not gone domestic." He sounded tentatively relieved.

"Can't've done," Rose insisted. "We just had wild and crazy, half-dressed sex on the edge of the bed after getting thrown out of the Console Room by a pissed off time machine."

"So I'm wrong?" the Doctor asked, tugging on the lace of one of his boots.

"Nope," Rose said, reaching down and finding another boot lace to tug on. "Sunday afternoon sex is probably very domestic. But, like we've both mentioned, time machine, right?"

He grinned at her, brilliant and mad and so hers, now. "Time machine's a good point. Might not be Sunday where we are. Might never be Sunday."

"Exactly," Rose said. "And besides, I think that magazine said domestic sex is boring, and only happens like once a month or some such. And I'm having you again, soon's you're ready, so I'm sure that's out."

"And I've got such big plans for all the things I'm gonna do to you, Rose Tyler," the Doctor agreed.

"Kinky," Rose said gleefully.

"Could do, yeah," the Doctor said, and finally kicked off a boot.

"So we've not gone domestic."

"Not us," the Doctor agreed, and kicked off the other boot. "Not ever."

"Jack's wrong," Rose announced cheerfully.

"Jack's wrong," the Doctor parroted happily, and finally, finally shoved his jeans to the floor. He'd not, Rose noticed, been wearing pants, either.

"I have a naked alien in my bed," Rose said mock-seriously. "Whatever shall I do with him?"

The Doctor chuckled and, with a gesture Rose wasn't sure she'd even seen coming, he toppled her under him. There was a moment to think as he got comfortable, and then he answered, in his darkest, most delectable tone, "Maybe you should ask what the alien'll do with you."

Rose couldn't resist grinning. "Oooh, what!" she demanded happily, wriggling beneath him and loving every second of this completely not domestic Sunday afternoon.

The Doctor considered for a moment, then smirked at her. "For starters, I'm gonna make you admit you're stealin' my books an' hiding 'em behind those awful magazines of yours."