phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
phinnia ([personal profile] phinnia) wrote2010-09-09 08:47 pm
Entry tags:

frosting (pg-13)

title: frosting
author: [personal profile] phinnia
rating: pg-13
fandom: doctor who
pairing: ten II/rose (human!ten/rose)
prompt: 'type: glossy' for [profile] kissbingo.
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel i, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: never written these two before, but the first bit wouldn't leave me alone. so.

Even at times like this, he can't help but look at her.

Her lips shimmer in the cool glow of the emergency lights; she's wearing some kind of gloss on them. She is a still point at the center of a sea of scattered bits of heater; her hair is knotted carelessly at her neck, a ponytail folded in on itself. There is a small furrow between her eyebrows, born of concentration, and her teeth worry at the shining flash of her lower lip.

He shifts in his seat, hoping his arousal isn't too obvious, and exhales a hot, foggy sigh that crystallizes before his face.

Rose doesn't look up. "It'll be ready in a minute. I've just about got it."

"What? Oh -- right, the -- brilliant." He looks down at the things in his lap, and turns toward them again with gritted teeth. He was supposed to be cataloguing the mess that is the 'unknown crap that fell through the Rift' boxes, not fantasizing about Rose. All that nonsense about cold showers was just that, nonsense - cold wasn't the slightest bit helpful in this situation. It was freezing in here and it made no difference.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"What?"

There is a heavy clunk, and a satisfied cry of victory from Rose, and the heater roars to life. She stands up again and wipes her hands on the thighs of her jeans. "I said it's funny. This."

His face flushes hotly - how did she know? "What's so funny about it?"

"Well, usually you were the one fixin' things and I was the one sittin' around, yeah?"

Oh. "Yeah, that is funny."

The silence falls thick and flat between them, as thick and palpable as as their white puffs of breath. He tries to meet her eyes, but it's difficult, and not because of the poor lighting.

"Well." She wiped her hands on her jeans again. "I guess I'll -- leave you to it."

"Yeah."

"Should ... warm up down here soon." She did not move.

"Yeah." He looks down at the scattered objects on the table.

She turns to head back upstairs. disappearing out of the circle of flickering blue-grey lights, and he holds up one hand as if he could physically stop her from across the room. "Rose?"

She stills. "Yeah?"

He is immobile for a moment, his momentum as frozen still as his breath in the air before him, and then he is not; he lurches out of the chair, and then forward, and then he is kissing her.

She seems to suffer the same series of afflictions: she is still, and then for a moment beautifully warm and responsive under his lips and tongue.

She smiles at him, a quicksilver flash in the emergency lamps, and then she is gone again.

He touches his lips. The left-behind gloss is thick on them, like frosting. Frosting and Rose, he thinks, and fidgets.

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