Blame Game
by Camilla Sandman
Disclaimer: Oh, BBC, I am borrowing your characters for neferious purposes. Can you blame me?
Author's Note: For Saz, who wanted Ten!smut and the phrase "arranged on velvet delicately, like a platter at a dinner table". All blame thus fall on her. Yes.
II
"This is all your fault," the Doctor says, and glares at her as indignant as someone naked except for socks and glasses can manage, which isn't too well.
"How is it my fault?" she lobs back, trying to look as insulted as she can in only socks and ruffled hair.
"You were trying to seduce me!"
"Was not!"
"Rose Tyler," he says sternly, glaring at her, "you were starkers, arranged on velvet delicately, like a platter at a dinner table..."
"That doesn't mean you can just come and have a nibble!"
"You didn't seem to mind! 'Oooh, Doctor. Yeees, Doctor. Ohohohoh, Doctor.' Hardly screaming nibbling protests."
She plants a finger on his chest and tries to forget just a few minutes ago she was licking that part of his chest. "I was under duress."
"From what?"
"From shagging!"
"Hah!" he says.
"Hah!" she says.
"That settles it, then."
"Bloody well does!" she says forcefully, and stalks off. Bloody silly aliens and their bloody silly shags, and this is all his fault, kissing her just because she kissed him a bit and shagging her just because she took all her clothes off and really, the nerve of him to suggest she'd planned it just because she'd gotten stuck in the velvet coverlet of the bed and had called for his help!
"Rose?" he calls after her.
"What!"
"The sonic screwdriver is stuck in your hair."
He grins at having the last word until she tosses it at him, and then he spends the rest of the day nursing it as if it was a pet she'd hurt when he bloody well knows he provoked her into doing that and she didn't hit him that hard and he is such a little cry-baby, giving her hurt looks, long, cute, adorable, sexy cute looks and...
Bollocks.
II
"This is all your fault," Rose says, and kisses him.
"How is this my fault?" he manages to get out, trying to remember to breathe as she pushes against him and continues her frontal nudity assault on his skin.
"You looked like a puppy," she mutters, drawing her tongue around his earlobe.
"You shag puppies?"
"I shag you."
"That you do," he admits, seeing the obvious logic and reason in that. It's hard to argue against when he's already deep inside her and he's got his hands on her breasts and oh oh oh he's lost track of that train of thought.
"See, your fault," she breathes, albeit a little raggedly. "Your... Yes. Oooooh, yes."
"My fault you slammed me into the wall and stuck your tongue down my throat?"
"Yeeees... All your fault."
"This too?" he asks and moves a little.
"Yes."
"And this?"
"Yes," she whimpers and bites down on his shoulder and he's losing that train of thought also and everything is very, very naked and warm and skin.
He's still convinced this is all her fault.
II
"Okay, this is a little my fault," the Doctor says, and she snorts at the massive, massive understatement of it all.
"A little? Whose bright idea was it to visit France in the middle of a mass protest?"
"Whose bright idea was it to shout 'Ahaha, we got the Olympics, not you!' within earshot of police just looking for a reason to arrest people?"
"Whose bright idea was it to get us handcuffed together and then run for it?" she counters, lifting her handcuffed hand and thus his as well. "Also, do I want to know why Time Lords find them such a turn-on you ended up shagging me against the window of a baguette bakery?"
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks a little guilty. "They're shiny?"
"So is this car here and I don't see that making you all horny."
He looks at the car, and looks at her again, and just grins.
Oh dear.
Okay, maybe this now is a little her fault, she reflects as he buries his head between her breasts and the sun is warm on her face and the car warm against her back. But he still has to take most of it, and she's going to firmly remind him of that without fail. Yep. Decidedly.
She's just going to shag his brains out first so he won't have the sense to argue against her.
II
"Fine, this is mostly my fault," Rose admits, and he gives her the most unimpressed glance he can manage as he brushes leaves out of his hair.
"Mostly? Who dragged who to the Bakpor Festival of Fertility and Any Excuse to Shag, exactly?"
"I only wanted a peek!"
"That's what you said when you tore my trousers off too."
"You weren't in a hurry to get them back on!"
"I've always felt closer to the Universe while naked," he says seriously in his best I-am-Time-Lord voice, and then ruins the impression totally by grinning widely. He can't help it, she looks much too Rose not to grin at her.
"You're so full of it," she murmurs, correcting his tie and buttoning up his jacket.
"You're full of grass," he observes, watching her fingers at work intently.
"And whose fault is that?" she replies, lifting her eyes.
"Mostly yours," he says, lifting a hand to her cheek and feeling it burn still. "A little mine."
She looks unimpressed at that, so he decides to impress her a little with his tongue, and then with his hands and finally with his excellent sense of balance carrying her the way back to the TARDIS while snogging and only falling over five times.
Any excuse to shag, really. After all, that's what the festival is all about, and Rose did want to see it.
He's still convinced that makes it mostly her fault and just a little his.
II
"This is my fault," the Doctor says, and she shakes her head at him.
"No."
"Yes."
"No," she says forcefully, kissing him hard. "We're going to get out of this and you're going to take me for a skinny dip in that lake of tea you keep talking about and it's not your fault, never going to be your fault."
"Rose," he whispers, and clings to her, the light flickering above them and she knows that if it fails, if power fails, they'll be plummeting to their deaths.
"Right here," she whispers, and then she just breathes, exhaling when he lifts her up, inhaling when he sinks into her, breathing, breathing, breathing until life is all there is.
When power holds and they get out, they both blame the fatal danger and the fatal danger can't defend itself.
II
"Is it my fault?" Rose whispers to him just before sleep, her eyes innocent as she looks at him.
"Yes," he says, watching their linked hands. "It is your fault I lived."
She giggles a little. "Your fault I was there to do it."
"Your fault I changed into a horny geek boy."
"Your fault I like it."
"Your fault I wanted you to," he counters, smiling a little at her smiles. "Do you, though? Like it?"
She gives him a snore, which he takes as an insult until he realises it's genuine and she's sleeping, her lips slightly parted and her lashes dark against her skin.
"Oh," he mutters. "Sleep. Why are all you humans so dedicated to it? You miss heaps of mucking about. I finished an entire advanced theory of non-relativity while Einstein slept and then he spilt his morning coffee all over it."
He decides not to let Rose have any coffee near anything written, even if he likes her hair much more than Einstein's. Unless she asks very nicely, of course.
He hasn't quite learned to want to say no to her yet. Maybe that's her fault. Maybe it's his. Maybe it's Gallifrey's, leaving the void he seeks to fill. Maybe it's the TARDIS's, carrying him to life. Maybe it's time's, making scars out of wounds and hope out of despair.
Maybe it's no one's, and everyone's and whoever took the first step, they're both to blame for not letting go.
"Einstein would agree there," he says firmly, nodding to himself.
"Would you shut up about Einstein?" Rose asks, and he sees a smile form on her lips, but her eyes stay closed. "You're making me think you fancy him and I'm liking you to no good at all."
"I'll give you no good, Rose Tyler," he says and she laughs like life, at least until he shuts her up and kisses away and indignant protests and attempts at blaming him for giving her no sleep.
He'll still argue it's mostly her fault, he thinks.
He is still the Doctor, after all.
FIN