He kissed her, but that's skipping ahead.

(Hours have passed, but fog and mud and misplaced thoughts still crowd around inside her skull, each of them stubbornly refusing to do anything useful. Train tracks disappear over the edge of a cliff; half-built staircases lead upwards, into nowhere.

Rose tries to remember.)

"A nonlethal aerosolized narcosynthetic ultra-short-acting hypnotic barbiturate," he'd said, but that didn't explain anything, not really. It did not tell Rose what she could expect in this prison cell, in this century, on this planet. Moreover, it also did not explain why she suddenly found herself warm and fuzzy and unable to concentrate on anything.

Well, that very last part wasn't exactly true, but she would be damned before she would admit it.

The truth was, even if his words faded to meaninglessness in her ears, Rose was very focused on the sound of the Doctor's voice, soft and melodious in its peaks and valleys. She cataloged the exact burrow of his brow, pinched in concentration, along with the elegant dance of his fingers over the gleaming metal walls. She watched how his teeth sank into his lower lip, pressing until the flesh grew white from pressure, biting him the way she would like to.

She shook herself. She didn't think like that. She didn't allow herself to think like that. And on that rare occasion that such thoughts did creep, unbidden and unwanted (or so she told herself) into the background noise of her mind, she stamped them down immediately, tucking them back into the dark where they belonged.

(Her feet don't reach the shuttle floor. Rose wonders if her legs are too short, or if the seventy-third century simply produces taller people. Either way, she feels like a child, feet dangling in the air like they did when she used to sit on the swings outside the Estate.)

"…nonviolent approach," the Doctor said, his words and syllables seeping in between the cracks in her consciousness, and Rose realized he was explaining something to her the whole time. Probably it was something important, but Rose couldn't feel that over the warmth that blossomed in her chest when he looked at her. Still, she tried to pay attention, or at least to pretend to.

"It's a noble goal, but poorly executed," the Doctor continued, scanning his sonic screwdriver up and down the wall. Rose could only guess that he was looking for an exit, but that was hardly surprising. What was surprising was that he couldn't seem to find one. "Local scientists figured they could minimize the body count for both law enforcement and lawbreakers alike if only they could strip away the things that motivated said lawbreakers to break the law in the first place. You know, stuff like revenge, jealousy, greed, and even more complicated ideas like political motivations, religious zealotry, racism and sexism and all the other bad isms."

"What about people who are just trying to survive?" Rose asked. "Like someone who steals food cos they're starving?"

"Well, that's something else entirely. You'd be happy to know this century is actually fairly progressive about that sort of thing."

"Lovely," Rose said, grinning.

"So, the idea was that if you take all this stuff away, you're left with a person who wants nothing more than basic survival," the Doctor continued. "Supposedly, this hypothetical person will be much more compliant, surrendering or confessing freely without any pesky politics or religion or half-baked lofty ideals weighing them down, obeying every directive told to them, or honestly answering any question asked, at a success rate of something like 99 %. Take away a person's ego and super ego, and the only thing left is the id, and it just wants to survive. But that's just the theory; practice tells a different story. Because a drug is a drug is a drug and nothing else. It may be designed to make you compliant for the sake of survival, but it can't tell the difference between your id and your egos. It can't parse out the subtleties between survival instincts and a spur-of-the-moment gut impulse. Not to mention that when it comes to fight-or-flight, plenty of organisms default to fight."

"So it's basically going to give us problems with impulse control? Why didn't you just say that?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Because I wanted to impress you with my encyclopedic knowledge."

Rose quirked an eyebrow. Surprised at himself, the Doctor faltered, his mouth hanging open as if something else might stutter out of it. But soon his teeth snapped together with a loud click.

"Right," Rose said, trying (and failing) to hide her grin. "So it's safe to assume it's already working, then?"

"Yes. A very fair presumption."

(Rose envies the Doctor his even-footedness. For all that he plays the part of a martyred wanderer, he seems equally at-home nearly everywhere he goes. His fingers fly over the shuttle controls as easily as they do on the TARDIS.)

The door wouldn't open.

The Doctor took to pacing all about the prison cell. It was a small chamber and a short walk and he easily made the journey in a matter of moments, his eyes frantically scanning every object and nook and cranny in his path, filing away everything from the metal-tiled floor to the thin-mattressed bunk to the seams in the walls and even the tiny water closet.

"Does that help?" Rose asked. "The pacing?"

Halting in his tracks, the Doctor ran both hands through his hair. But his stillness did not soothe his agitation. If anything, he seemed more anxious than ever, a vessel bursting with potential energy, a wild animal trapped and growling in the corner of a cage.

(He still won't look at her.)

"What are you doing?" he asked, frowning.

Rose pulled the bedsheet apart stitch-by-stitch, fingers burrowing into the hole she'd created, working outward. She yanked as hard as she could and the air was filled with a nasty rip.

"You feel impelled to destroy the upholstery?" the Doctor asked incredulously.

"I'm making myself a gag, just in case. Don't really want to go around saying just anything that wanders into my mind. No, ta."

"Well, it's not a truth serum per se, though if you're asked a direct question, you'll probably answer honestly before you can stop yourself. But making a gag won't do you any good. You'll just take it off when you feel the urge to do so."

Rose heaved an irritated sigh. "Well, what else am I supposed to do? I don't want to just suddenly start blurting stuff out."

"Stuff like what?"

"My feelings," she said before she could stop herself.

The Doctor shot her a mischievous grin, and Rose's cheeks flushed with warmth. "You did that on purpose!" she accused.

Laughing, the Doctor nodded. "I did. But now we're even. So for the time-being, should we dispense with the questions? Call it a no-questions truce?"

He held out a hand for Rose to shake. She slid her hand into his, her warm fingers fitting against his cool palm, and she did not think about how perfectly their hands came together, how much she loved the feel of his skin on hers, how much she would like to bring his hand to her mouth so she could press a kiss to each knuckle.

Rose dropped his hand like it shocked her.

"Truce," she said breathlessly.

(Remembering is exhausting.

Slumping back in her seat, Rose closes her eyes. She's terribly tired, and the Doctor mentioned something about a bit of a wait. (Six hours or longer, and that's the problem with terrestrial travel, Rose, everything takes exponentially longer, humans waste so much of their time going to places instead of simply being at them.) She might as well catch some shut-eye now, while she's got the chance. There's no telling how long his refractory period will last, just how many minutes will pass between the two of them reaching the TARDIS and him whisking them off somewhere and somewhen new.

Six hours, he'd said. They're more than halfway through their journey now.

They haven't spoken since.)

She wanted to snuggle up against him, so she did.

In her defense, he did look awfully pathetic when he threw himself down on the bed, muttering under his breath in frustration. And there wasn't exactly a long list of other places Rose could sit, not unless she wanted to kip on the unforgiving metal floor. And he was just so angry with this whole situation, with himself, that he really seemed like he could use a sympathetic shoulder, or a squeeze of the hand. And she was a little bit cold. And—

And it took just a few moments for Rose to realize just how close they were to each other, even closer than usual, and lying down, and in a bed. Their arms and thighs smushed against each other in the narrow bunk like books packed on a library shelf. When the realization struck Rose, her pulse fluttered just a little bit faster. It felt like it doubled in speed when she realized he wasn't exactly itching to move away.

God, he smelled good.

"It just doesn't make sense," the Doctor mumbled, glaring at the ceiling like it wronged him somehow. "There's no deadlock. It's an electronic seal. The sonic should be able to figure it out."

"You'll find a way," Rose said, and then without meaning to, added, "You always do."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but flattery will get you nowhere. It certainly won't get you out of this cell."

"It's not flattery. It's the truth. Can't exactly lie right now, can I?"

"Well, technically you're lying right there."

"Ugh. If you've got brains enough for puns, you've got brains enough to sort all this," Rose replied, rolling her eyes.

Chuckling, the Doctor shifted onto one side, facing her. "You know, Hitchcock once said puns are the highest form of literature."

"Yeah, well, Hitchcock was an overrated old bag of turds," Rose said before she could stop herself.

The Doctor's eyes widened in surprise before a real laugh ripped out of him, shaking the bed with its forcefulness.

"Oh my god," Rose moaned, burying her face in her hands. "I can't believe I just said turds! God, I can't believe I just said it again!"

"Is that what's really going through your brain all the time?" the Doctor teased. "Random scatological references?"

"No! It just popped in there! I swear!"

"It's all right," the Doctor said, the last of his chuckles subsiding. "But just so you know, the more you fixate on something, the more likely you are to do it or say it. Brains are sort of funny that way, drugs or no drugs. So I might suggest practicing a bit of mindfulness, if there's something you really don't want to get out."

"If it's so easy, you do it!"

"It is so easy, and I am!"

Rose hmphed. "Well, there's that, at least."

"What?"

"Your ego. I'd wondered where it'd got off to. Probably shouldn't leave it unattended, it can't support its weight on its own."

Now it was the Doctor's turn to roll his eyes. "I honestly don't know why you think I'm so arrogant," he said, propping his head up in his hand. "Humans! You're so obsessed with humility. Humility's not that great, you know. Why not recognize your accomplishments? What's the harm in that?"

"Oh yeah? And what are your accomplishments, then? Trawling the galaxy as a gorgeous space hobo?"

The Doctor's mouth fell open in surprise and Rose cursed herself. She hadn't even heard the words in her head before they left her lips—what the hell was wrong with her?

"Gorgeous, huh?" the Doctor asked.

"Space hobo," Rose replied stubbornly.

Nodding, the Doctor shifted closer to her, his grin a thing of pure smugness. "And just what makes you think I'm gorgeous?"

Spurred on by the sight of him, his big beautiful brown eyes and dusting of freckles each begging for a kiss and those killer cheekbones and that tongue-touched grin that she just knew he picked up from her, a hundred words and half-cooked thoughts crowded together in Rose's mouth in an effort to escape all at once. They raged an epic battle with the memories that suddenly rose to the surface, recollections of hugs and rescues and half-dreamt dreams and half-remembered kisses and hints dropped and things almost said.

Mindfulness, Rose thought, and she fought those things back. She clenched her jaw until it hurt, forced back the words until pain shot through her head and her entire body trembled with effort.

The Doctor's look quickly turned to one of concern. "Rose—"

"Why do you want to know?" she gasped out.

"Because I care about your opinion, I enjoy your validation, and I like knowing that my presence affects you," he replied automatically.

He slapped his hand over his mouth afterward. "Rose Tyler!" he shouted, voice muffled through his fingers. "We had a truce! No questions!"

"You broke the truce first!" Rose retorted, poking him in the shoulder, hard. "And I had to say something or else you'd have figured out the truth!"

The instant the Doctor started to speak, moving his hand away, Rose pounced, smacking her hand down over his to hold it in place.

"Don't," she said, pleading. She shifted to a sitting position in the bed, to offer better leverage with her hand over his mouth. The words she didn't say earlier still simmered somewhere in her chest, threatening to boil over; she didn't need him to turn up the heat. "Please," she added.

His eyes flickered back and forth between hers for a moment, deciding.

Without warning, the Doctor grabbed her by the wrist, tearing her away from his mouth. Thrown off-balance, Rose fell forward, and the Doctor flipped them over, pinning her to the bed beneath him.

She looked up, and his face was very close. Almost uncomfortably close. Definitely close enough for a kiss.

His hearts beat rapidly under her fingertips and her fingers curled into his jacket.

One of them audibly swallowed.

"Right," the Doctor said, and it came out with a tremor that Rose could feel shivering through his entire frame. He sat back on his haunches, carding a hand through his hair. "What was that you said about finding a way out?"

(She thinks she can feel him watching her.

She doesn't know how she knows this; she just does. With anyone else, she would find the sensation creepy, like something tingling and crawling down her spine. But he's different. His gaze is the sun warming her face, returning from behind the clouds on an overcast day. Rose knows that if she opened her eyes, the Doctor would quickly glance away, pretend to be absorbed in something else. If she opened her eyes, she could catch him, hold the sunlight in her palm for a heartsbeat.

She keeps her eyes closed.)

"You're a bloody genius!" she shouted excitedly when he finally (finally) managed to get the door open.

"And you're going to get us caught," the Doctor replied with a laugh.

Chastened, Rose cringed. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," the Doctor said, looking this way and that before stepping out. He held his hand out for Rose to take, and she did, curling her fingers snugly around his as she followed after him. She emerged in a bright-lit hallway, its surfaces clean and crisp, corners gleaming. It was certainly the most posh prison she had ever had the misfortune of being thrown into, but that didn't make her dislike it any less.

The Doctor took off, tugging her along, and she gave a start; the Doctor didn't seem to register the other doors lining the walls, or the cells behind them.

"Erm, Doctor," Rose said, pulling back, "What about the other prisoners in here? Shouldn't we help them too?"

"No, I want to get you to safety."

The Doctor stopped in his tracks, sighing. His shoulders slumped. Rose could practically hear him cursing himself.

"What I meant to say is, we're not aware of the circumstances of anyone else in here-no way to know who has been rightfully or wrongfully imprisoned," he explained, glancing at each and every door as if he could divine by sheer force of will the sort of character who lay within. "Not to mention, if they've been dosed just as we have, then their behavior will be wildly unpredictable. They could hurt themselves, they could hurt other people. They could hurt you."

Catching himself, the Doctor grunted in frustration, dragging a hand over his face. "I mean, we can always look into it later when our heads are clearer. Take a look into their profiles, see who shouldn't be locked up in here. Come back in with some gas masks so we don't have to deal with any of this drug nonsense all over again or risk you getting over-exposed."

His hands spasmed and he shook his head. "I mean—"

"It's okay, Doctor," Rose interrupted, before she could stop herself. "It's okay for you to tell me that you care about me."

Laughing uneasily, the Doctor grabbed her hand again, setting off for the end of the hall. "Well, I'm glad you think so," he said, whipping the sonic back out as they approached a bright-lit panel at the end of the corridor. "It's rather uncomfortable, having all these feelings all the time. I mean, of course I care-I care about the welfare of all of my companions. I'm not a monster."

He scanned the panel up and down, looked at the reading, frowned. "But you," he said. "You're different."

Rose felt her cheeks warm, her heart speeding up ever-so-slightly in her chest. Catching himself again, the Doctor muttered under his breath, shaking his head like he could shake his thoughts away.

"Perfect," he said, very carefully not looking at Rose while he scanned the control panel once more. A series of buttons lit up and he pressed them all, perhaps a little harder than he needed to. "Forced confessions are just lovely, aren't they? Nothing like having words and actions just wrenched out of you without your permission. I don't suppose you could think of something-literally anything-that would offer a distraction from all of this noise streaming ceaselessly out of my mouth right now?"

"I love you," Rose blurted out.

(It only takes moments for Rose to drift off into sleep, tired as she is, but it's a restless and uneasy slumber, filled with stops and starts. She shifts in her seat and tells herself that the rough nylon is actually a comfortable mattress, the hum vibrating through the shuttle is actually the hum of the TARDIS, and that the soft puff of air on her cheek was actually the Doctor reaching over to tenderly brush a strand of hair away from her face.

Not that she cares about what the Doctor thinks, or what he does. Because she doesn't.)

The Doctor's fingers stilled on the control panel and Rose felt herself pale. Blood rushed from her head, plummeting in desperation to distance itself from her as much as possible, leaving her lightheaded and dizzy.

Oh god. Oh, god. Oh, no.

"Fuck," she said, "I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from, I—"

"Done," the Doctor said, entering one last command. The panel glowed green and the heavy doors in front of them slid open, revealing another long hallway, another small eternity to tread.

"Like you said," the Doctor said, winking at her. "Genius."

(Rose shifts to a more comfortable position on the seat, or at least she tries to. But it doesn't seem to matter how she situates herself. She can't truly rest. The nightmare won't end.)

The shrill shriek of an alarm split the air overhead, but Rose could barely hear it over the sound of her blood rushing back into her ears.

"—just standing there for? Come on!" filtered back in, distorted like the sound on a patchy VHS, and someone was holding her hand, and that someone was the Doctor, and oh god, she still couldn't believe she said that, couldn't believe she told him, but he pulled her along and they ran, and maybe he didn't hear her somehow? And her meet moved so slowly, like molasses squelching about her ankles, sucking at her clothes, drawing her back, like in a dream.

"Rose! Snap out of it!"

"Trying," she gasped out, but she wasn't, not really. Because she didn't want to, she realized. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to be swallowed up in a black hole, or barring that, to stand and wait for the guards to catch up. Then they could throw her back in the cell, where she could at least have the dignity of embarrassment-dying where no one else could see. But the Doctor's will must have been stronger than hers, because his grip on her hand bordered on painful, and he ran at such a punishing pace that Rose's legs and lungs burned with the effort of keeping up.

Another alarm chimed in time with the first, and Rose glanced up ahead to see a set of emergency doors sliding shut.

"Come on!" the Doctor hissed. "Come on, come on, come on—"

They were so close, but Rose heard the stomping of boots and the firing of weapons behind her. Something sharp pierced the back of her neck and a millisecond later, darkness began bleeding into the corners of her vision—

At the last moment, she yanked her hand out of the Doctor's grasp and shoved him forward with all of her might.

The last thing she saw was the Doctor landing on the floor with a groan, the doors slamming shut behind him.

The last thing she heard was the Doctor calling her name.

Everything was a mess of muddy sound and dull lights, pulsing behind her eyelids and pounding in her ears.

"I said don't touch her!"

"Sir, please put it down! Don't make us—"

A buzzing sound. Then something sharp and staticky. Gasps and sharp cries amidst the sirens; a series of thuds. Creaking plastic noises and the sharp slap of leather, like gloves on helmets. She could feel their vibrations through the floor when they fell.

"Wait," she said before everything went dark again.

"Rose. Rose, please wake up!"

Something on her face. Tapping. Petting. Gently. Soft. A hand?

"Rose, please, you've got to wake up. I can't carry you. I mean, I can, and I would, but it would slow us down considerably, and we really need to move…"

Rose's eyes slowly slid open, blearily drinking in the bright hallway all around her. The alarms no longer screeched overhead—a small blessing, since her head ached terribly—but as her vision cleared, she saw that she was surrounded by bodies.

"What?" she slurred. "What happen?"

"Don't worry," a familiar voice said. "None of them are dead. At least, I don't think they are."

Rose turned over to find the Doctor watching her, a worried expression on his face. Normally that might have concerned her, the look and the meaning behind it, but she couldn't be bothered to trouble herself about anything at that moment. Everything felt far too floaty and light, his face swimming in and out of her sight in soft-focus.

Licking her lips, Rose smiled. "I like it when you worry about me."

"Yes, well," the Doctor said, rolling his eyes. "You give me ample opportunity to do so."

"Aww, I don't get even a little thanks for my heroics earlier?"

"I extracted a dart from your neck and neutralized the armed guards dragging you off," the Doctor replied, grasping Rose by the arm and half-guiding, half-pulling her into a sitting position. "Isn't that thanks enough?"

Rose shook her head no, fighting the urge to giggle.

The Doctor sighed impatiently. "What do you suggest, then?"

Rose wondered if he knew just how much she liked the dimple that stood out in his cheek when he grew cross with her, if he knew how weirdly sexy that crossness could be. She also wondered if she said that last bit aloud, because suddenly his expression changed from worried to confused. But that could just be on account of how her hand was crawling up his arm, grabbing him by a coat-lapel so she could drag him down for a kiss.

The Doctor froze.

(But he didn't pull away.)

It was almost shocking, the contrast of his cool lips on hers, but Rose pulled herself closer to him anyway, her fingers tightening around a fistful of coat. Her eyes fluttered shut and her heart pounded so loudly she was surprised he couldn't hear it. She couldn't stop the contented little hum that escaped her when she felt him relax into it, luxuriated in the rush when his lips parted just long enough for his tongue to dart out, tasting her.

The Doctor pulled back, eyes wide. He ran his thumb along his lower lip; Rose reached out to do the same, so, so curious about how his mouth would respond to her fingers, but he caught her before she could get too close.

"We haven't got much longer," the Doctor said, or Rose thought he said; she was too busy staring at his stupid beautiful mouth to register anything coming out of it.

"Huh?"

Before the Doctor could reply, the guards around them began to stir, groaning.

The Doctor stood up, bringing Rose with him. "We've got to go. Can you move?" he asked.

Rose grinned. "I can run."

(The shuttle has flown at breakneck speeds, yet it's the slowing-down that wakes her. It's disorienting, like waking up from a nap in front of the telly when the program changes.

She wonders if she's still under the influence. She doesn't have to wonder long. Because even after the Doctor sets the shuttle down, the TARDIS in sight just a few meters away, Rose doesn't stir. She doesn't move when he unbuckles his seat belt or opens the hatch. And she stays put even when he stands, even when he leaves.

He does not say anything when he steps past her.)

They darted down one corridor after another, their footsteps echoing and bouncing off the walls, guided by some invisible map inside the Doctor's head. Rose was grateful (not for the first time, and certainly not for the last) that he remembered all the twists and turns they took when the guards first brought them in, because she was good and properly lost in the labyrinth.

She would wonder why no more guards came after them, but she didn't have to; everywhere they ran, they encountered more bodies on the floor, sluggish and slow but regaining consciousness by millimeters, just a few steps behind her.

She already knew the answer to her question, the why and the what if not the how or the for whom, but she asked anyway, discomfort bubbling sickly in her stomach.

"What did you do to them?" Rose asked.

"It doesn't matter," the Doctor told her.

(Rose only gets up when her legs start to fall asleep. She steps outside the shuttle, and he is nowhere to be seen, but up ahead, the TARDIS doors are cracked just a sliver.

She takes a deep breath and trudges forward.)

They turned a corner, and even through the fog crowding everything out of her brain, Rose spotted the shadow of a guard looming up ahead—a standing and conscious and presumably very-much-armed-and-alert guard. Rose couldn't say why the Doctor didn't notice him, but his long strides did not stutter in length or speed until Rose violently yanked back.

She only wasted half a second looking for somewhere to hide. Praying that she knew what she was doing, that it was her brain at the helm and not the drugs, she smacked a button the wall next to her. A door slid open and she ran into the empty prison cell, yanking the Doctor after her. The door closed instantly behind them.

Shocked, the Doctor started to speak (probably to ask what the devil had got into her), but Rose slapped her hand over his mouth, pushing him up against the door. His lips parted beneath her fingers, his eyes sharp and brow furrowed like he might chastise her, but at a brisk shake of her head, he calmed.

Slow footsteps fell heavily in their direction. Rose felt the exact moment the Doctor heard it, his jaw tensing, breath hitched.

A mad impulse to laugh bubbled up in her throat; she bit her lip to hold the noise back, trap it in. Pain split her skull and her arms shook, her legs trembling, her entire body punishing her for her restraint, for caging the animal instinct inside. It rattled around her ribs in a desperate bid for escape.

The Doctor's hands landed on her waist. She looked up to find him watching her with no small measure of concern. He was so close to her and so pretty and god, she wanted to kiss him again. His thumbs stroked her through her shirt and goddammit he was making this difficult and goddamnit she wanted to kiss him again and—

And the next thing she knew, she was doing exactly that.

Replacing her hand with her lips on his, she pressed herself close, her hands traveling up to tangle fingers in his hair. A small noise escaped him and he gripped her waist tightly as he deepened the kiss.

A thrill shot through her at the realization that he wasn't just letting this happen—no, he was kissing her back.

Something in the back of her head faintly protested. There was a reason they shouldn't be doing this—hell, there was a whole book full of reasons why this was a bad idea, the two of them, right here, right now—but she was damned if she could think of why. She didn't have room in mind for anything that wasn't his teeth grazing her lower lip or his fingers edging beneath her shirt.

But she froze.

That guard was still on the other side of the door.

He would hear…

Rose pulled back, holding the Doctor at arm's-length. He blinked at her, his suit and hair gloriously rumpled, and damn if she didn't want to kiss him again, damn it all, but she was not about to get caught because of it. Her discomfort was even more effective than dumping a sack of ice down the back of her clothes.

After a moment, the guard outside shifted, his boots scuffing over the floor as he walked away. His diminishing footfalls let Rose know he was leaving, walking back in the direction they'd come in from. Lucky.

When Rose couldn't hear the guard's footsteps anymore, she relaxed, the muscles in her arms loosening in relief. "Are we close?" she whispered to the Doctor.

The Doctor didn't respond, just watched her, his eyes drawn to her mouth.

"Doctor?"

He shook himself. He nodded. "Next hall over," he said quietly. "Hangar bay. Shuttle to the TARDIS. We're very close."

(She steps inside, and he's already bounding around the console, fingers flying over the keys.)

"They're here!"

The guards in the hangar bay opened fire and the Doctor yanked Rose out of the way just in time, a dart pinging off the shuttle harmlessly next to her.

"Come on!" the Doctor shouted, smacking at a panel on the ship's outer hull. "We're almost in!"

(The words she wants to say burn in her throat.)

The second the shuttle shot out of the hangar bay, Rose cheered, jumping into the air.

"We did it!" she shouted excitedly, clapping her hands. "Oh my god, it was just like something out of Star Wars, like a proper space adventure! I can't believe it! Did you see—"

The Doctor stoppered her words with his lips on hers.

(The TARDIS dematerializes with a groan, and the Doctor steps away from the console, turns to leave.

"Did I do something wrong?" Rose asks, or rather, hears herself asking.

The Doctor doesn't turn around, but his shoulders tense, the lines of him going rigid.

"No," he says, his voice quiet. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Do you regret what happened?"

He sighs. "No," he says. "At least, not in the way you think. But I am disappointed in myself for letting my anger get the best of me around those guards. My treatment of them was...unnecessary."

Rose can only guess that he's still under the influence, too; she can't imagine this kind of candor from him otherwise.

She almost tries to stop the next words from flying out of her mouth. She doesn't succeed.

"You and me," she asks, fighting to keep her voice strong. "Are we ever gonna be anything more?"

A long pause. Eons pass inside it.

"No," he says.)