Fic, The Lady in the Fireplace, 26/32: COMING CLEAN, Part III

[loveslashangst]

Story: The Lady in the Fireplace
Author: Melinda Kitty melindakitty
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Reinette, King of France and (eventually) Ninth Doctor
Rated: Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, abuse of REALLY good champagne, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Rose would be more BadWolf and less Angst, Ten would post a sign on the door sayin' "If the TARDIS is a rockin', don't come a knockin'", and half of their adventures through time and space would consist of finding new and unusual places to have a juicy shag.
Spoilers: AU, DURING "The Girl in the Fireplace". If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon. And you have my word that -- despite how this starts -- I'm a passionate Rose/Ten shipper.
Summary: OTP Rose/Ten with a lot of interesting liaisons along the way. So what exactly DID Ten do in Versailles? This French farce will have love, drama, sex, and eventually as close to a happy ending as I can manage. Be forewarned, though, I may take you places that would make RTD's head explode.

On with the show:

(Nine and Ten dance to Billy Idol)

“So let's sink another drink
“'Cause it'll give me time to think
“If I had the chance
“I'd ask the world to dance
“And I'll be dancing with myself!”

(Because what self-respecting porn would be complete without a shower scene? ;) )




“You’re in love with her,” says his ninth regeneration.

A day ago, The Doctor would’ve denied it. Been defensive. Maybe even laughed. Now he just smoothes a stray lock of hair from Rose’s face. Kisses her gently. She stirs slightly. Responds to the kiss before falling back into full unconsciousness.

He strokes her cheek. She’s warmer. The cold retreats, moment by moment. He was right; she’ll be fine.

Nine looks at Rose. His face softens more. “I envy you.”

“I know.” He smiles. “But play your cards right and you’ll get to be me.”

A moment of understanding passes between them.

Nine hands him his boxers. “I think the suit’s a loss.”

He grins. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s always that amazing laundry on the fifth moon of Kretalmachus.”

“I’m partial to the one in Hackensack,” says Nine. He glances at Rose again. Sobers. “You’re sure she’ll be all right?”

The Doctor touches her forehead. She’s warming a little more. Not a fever, just a return to whatever normal function will be for her. “Yes.”

He himself is still in sore need of a shower, but feeling better and better. Rose is healing at an exponential rate. He can FEEL her connection to the Vortex. (As strong or stronger than his own.) And, like a Time Lord, it’s becoming a fundamental part of her. He blinks, awed, as traces of the Vortex rewrite her from the inside out. Gorgeous. Just exquisite. And he gets to be here as it happens.

He grins, optimism restored. “Fancy a shower?”

Nine snorts. “Buy me a drink first.”

He gives him his best disparaging look. “You’re too much work.”

Nine grins. “But I’m worth it.”

He remembers this. This moment. Until now, his memories have been a jumble of changing moments. Too many options, not enough surety. And the next thing his ninth said was...

“Now about that shower...”

He grins. The memories match. He’s catching up with himself. With the way he remembers events. This is good. This is very good. The changes Rose helped them make have saved them. He bounces to his feet. “Right this way.”

Nine doesn’t follow him.

He pauses. “Well? Time’s wasting. Allons-y.”

Then he remembers the moment. Fumbling to put all these intense and alien emotions into words. Being lost in a moment of gratitude and confusion and relief and regret and joy and pain.

He remembers knowing that he’d have to leave this Rose here. That he’d never see her again with his own eyes.

(And he pointedly ignores the uncharitable thought about the “skinny little ponce.”)

Fifty-five minutes, fourteen seconds. They have enough time. He waits. “I understand.”

Nine gives him a grateful look. Turns. Kneels beside Rose.

Brave face. He remembers vividly trying to put on a brave face even as his hearts broke. He remembers softly pouring out his hearts to her. Remembers half-hoping she couldn’t hear him. Remembers promising to protect the other Rose. To make her proud of him. Remembers the moment when the TARDIS herself reached out to him in sympathy. Reassured him that she’d show him what to do when the moment came to change. He remembers the relief of knowing his one constant ally in the universe hadn’t abandoned him. That she still loved him. That she’d go on loving him, even when his own time ended and his new regeneration took over.

He remembers kissing Rose goodbye. A chaste kiss to cool lips. Thinking it might well be the last time he ever got to touch her. And he doesn’t need memories to know how close his other self is to tears.

He sets a hand on his ninth’s shoulder. “I wish I could tell you it’ll get easier.”

“Don’t bother.” Nine stands. Straightens. “I’m fine.”

He helps himself sort their clothes from the various piles strewn around the control room. Hands Nine back his sonic screwdriver. Secures his own in the pocket of his coat. (It’s just as safe with Rose as with him.)

He glances at the room. Grins a little. (One can always tell how good the sex was by how destroyed the room is afterward.) He leads his other self down the familiar maze of hallways to the Good Bathroom. (When the TARDIS is in a snit, She “loses” this one and leaves him with a water closet that makes the public loo at Camden Station look posh and clean.)

He strips off his boxers. Fresh, plush towels wait for them on the towel racks. Probably warm too. (The TARDIS seems to be in an unusually good mood.) He steps into the shower cubicle. Starts the hot water. Sighs happily as the steaming jets hit his face. Groans in delight as extra jets bathe him head-to-toe in the spray. She is in a very VERY good mood. Hooray for non-annoyed TARDIS! He has so thoroughly earned this.

Nine loiters by the door.

“Well?” One would think the man had never seen a shower before. (And considering the state of those jumpers, that’s a distinct possibility.)

Nine sets his clothes on the counter. “Well, what?”

“Must you always be so difficult?” How Rose stood him will endure as one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Fifty minutes, forty-three seconds. Get in here.”

“Still waiting on the drink.” Nine grins. The Doctor remembers not kidding. Damn him.

“The other Rose will smell it on you,” he says. “Not stupid, remember?”

“I’ll have a mint afterward,” says Nine, unrepentant.

A crate of champagne appears in the corner. (Sense of humour. When did the TARDIS develop a sense of humour?) And three champagne flutes. (A bit optimistic there. Unless he’s very much mistaken, Rose is still unconscious on the sofa.)

His ninth looks at the case and glasses, puzzled at first, then intrigued. He gives the Doctor a quizzical look.

“It’s a long story.” He lets the hot water pour over his shoulders and back. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you can have some champagne after the shower.”

Nine doesn’t move.

He throws up his hands. “Fine. Be stubborn. Just don’t come whinging to me when the TARDIS cuts off the hot water halfway through a rinse and you get soap in your eyes.” He reaches for the shampoo.

His ninth has the gall to laugh at him. “How does she put up with you?”

“She loves me.” Defensiveness melts into warm thoughts of touching and being touched. Loving and being loved. How long has it been since he had a lover who would play? Give as good as she got? Match him kink for kink? He’s gone all soft and Romantical, but it feels good. And he regrets nothing. (Pleasant change, that. Usually he regrets something.) “She really loves me.”

“God knows why.” To his surprise, Nine steps into the cubicle. “Hand me the soap.”

The Doctor eyes him, suspicious.

“Oh for--” Nine rolls his eyes. “This isn’t a prison movie, fuckwit. Now hand me the soap and turn around. I’ll do your back.”

He rinses his hair. Moves out of the spray. “After you.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Hot water flows over warm skin. He takes inventory as he lathers Nine’s back. Broad shoulders. Trim waist. Lean muscle. His past self really was a nice piece of work. Exasperating as all Hell but oddly sweet. (Shame about the ears, though.) He sluices water over Nine’s shoulders. Smoothes away the last of the suds. Turns.

Nine’s slightly rough hands feel good on his back. (He’s grateful for the soap, though. Calluses.) Nine even throws in a bit of a shoulder massage. Strong thumbs. Surprisingly nimble fingers. The Doctor sighs, happy. “Hand me the conditioner?”

Nine retrieves the bottle. Grinning, he lathers his own head first.

“Prat,” he says. “Like you have enough hair to bother.”

“Jealous, oh furry one?” Nine takes an irritatingly long time to rinse.

Shivering, he snatches the bottle from his other self. Snorts. “Hardly.” He warms back up under the spray. Consults his internal chronometer. Forty-two minutes and sixteen seconds elapsed time. He does a quick lather and rinse.

“Take care of her.”

He sets the bottle down. Turns so he can look himself in the eye. “You have my word I will.”

Nine smiles. Snakes a hand around his waist.

“What are--?”

“Giving you something to remember me by,” Nine purrs.



Link to All Previous Chapters

Crossposted to: time_and_chips