#fv1

The Doctor shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and preens like an idiot, reflexively, not knowing what else to do and still getting used to this strange new body of his. He smiles back at her before he realizes he’s doing it, the strange, bubbly sensation rising up in his chest at once so intoxicating and glorious it takes all his formidable self-restraint not to throw himself at her feet on the spot.

“Sit next to me?” she asks. Shy, but insistent. His Rose. (Does he dare think of her as his?)

She pats the seat next to hers. He complies wordlessly, immediately.

He marvels, and not for the first time, at how eager this new incarnation is to please her.

(He decides to shove aside – just for now; just for tonight – the nagging worry that his unflagging devotion to Rose Tyler will one day lead to ruin. Because tonight is Christmas. A time for joy, for hope. For new beginnings. There will be more than adequate time for worry tomorrow.)

Once he’s joined her at the table Rose wastes no time, quickly tugging his hand onto her lap and stroking the back of it gently with her thumb, and then he really does stop breathing.

Later, the Doctor watches Rose pull her Christmas cracker apart, his eyes filled with stars as her tongue-touched smile lights up the room. 

And he watches her later still, after the news report about Harriet Jones, when they’re standing outside the TARDIS under a blanket of falling ash. (She still wants to travel with him. Will wonders never cease? He, of course, would love for her to come. Will always want her to come.) Her hand rests on his arm and their heads are inclined together, close, as he points out the stars and their next destination with an outstretched arm he hopes isn’t shaking too badly from nerves.

Rose is smiling at him again. Her smile is infectious – just like her laughter; her spirit; her faith in him. He pulls her in closer, until he can feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek.