#malcolm tucker x rose tyler

[gingerteaonthetardis]

hello i have a (very basic) fic prompt: established relationship hurt/comfort malcolm/rose. :))

genuinely diabolical of me to answer a prompt you sent almost a year ago—at one in the morning, on a random wednesday. but... better late than never? if you see this, which i hope you do... i'm so sorry it took so long. hopefully the 5k wordcount makes up for the wait.

content warnings for: medical emergencies, hospitals, canon-typical swearing (honestly, i think i kept things rather mild), and daddy issues

[read on AO3] [send me a prompt]

He comes home white as a sheet.

There has always been something faintly spectral about him. Two days without enough sleep and his bones tend to press up at the underside of his skin, turning his face into a craggy mess of shadow and light. He credits his milky, changeable complexion to a combination of his heritage and London's dismal weather.

Though—she's done what she can for him, in the months since they started seeing each other. They take walks along the Thames, sometimes. She stays over as many nights as she can and tries to make sure he gets a bit of actual rest.

They went to the seaside exactly once, for a conference, and while he worked almost the entire time, she did get him outside where the chill wind could buffet some colour into his cheeks. Eventually.

(She persuaded him to kiss her on the boardwalk, to ignore the possibility of the press spying on them, because “who would even recognise Malcolm Tucker when he's smiling?”)

But no matter how she tries, he is always pale and drawn and tense in a way that is not remotely healthy.

She knows she nags him about it, probably too much. Pushes. “This job is gonna kill you one day,” she told him matter-of-factly, one very late night in bed. Her hand was splayed on his bare chest, over his heart, as she spoke.

His fingers crept up to tangle with hers, and he let out a long breath, like a laugh too tired to embody itself. He hadn’t been home in over seventy-two hours.

“Already has,” he said. “You're looking at a ghost, darling.”

So she dragged the bedsheet up over his head and refused to let him out until he said “boo,” and he laughed a little and called her a child, and her fear dissipated so she could very nearly forget the darkness under his eyes, the tremor in his hands.

But when he comes home in the middle of the workday, looking like that—well, for the first time, she actually believes him.

She's looking at a ghost. A wraith. A shadow.

-

At first, she thinks things might not be as bad as they look.

“Steve fucking Fleming,” she sneers at the television, determined to be angry since Malcolm cannot be. He is beyond anger, having travelled to some more remote psychological peak. But she is merely mortal, flat-footed, here on the ground. Radiantly, righteously pissed. “Who does he think he is?”

He doesn't respond. His eyes are glued to the screen, where the ticker scrolls past spewing bullshit about his resignation. As if anyone on earth would believe that.

His body is a harp string, pulled so tight that it might snap at the smallest pluck. She reads him loud and clear, like he's wearing a big sign that says Do Not Touch. He'd been hounded by the press on the way in, probably bumped and jostled and while it boils her blood, she knows him. Knows he needs a minute alone.

At a loss for anything useful to do, she falls back on what she knows. The solution to any crisis, at least in the Tyler household.

Tea.

Water splashes into the kettle with probably an unnecessary degree of violence and noise-making. Malcolm likes his weak, bag out with lots of milk, so it'll hardly take a minute, she tells herself. Then she can go to him. Hug him, hard. Tell him the truth, which is that she loves him and fucking hates his job.

She taps the fingers of one hand on the countertop, her thumb ring clicking impatiently against the side of his mug with the other.

“I give it a week,” she calls out, eyes tense on the hissing kettle. “Maybe less, before they’re begging you to come back. You’ll see.”

Then: “Who's the bald one you hate so much? Julius? Well, there'll be a shitstorm anyway, with his report, and—and you know he'll come crawling on his hands and knees, asking you to clean it up. Do you…?”

Her voice gets lost in her throat for a moment, making her wonder if she should even ask this. If he'll even bother answering.

“Will you, when he asks?” Her hesitation is painfully obvious. “Will you go back?”

Nothing.

The only sound is the kettle, her thumb ring, the tinny voice of a reporter coming through the television speakers. And out the window, she thinks she can hear paparazzi—camera shutters clicking, animated voices in the street.

“Vultures,” she spits, like the word is poison.

She's interacted with the press since she was barely more than a baby, off and on, the relationship as rocky as the one between her parents. Pete Tyler, the mogul. The wunderkind. The absent. But the papers were always there, reporting on every jet ride to far off places. Every time he left them behind. Until the one time he didn’t come back.

The water boils, and she fixes Malcolm's tea, then hers. She wants so badly to run back into the living room and gather him all up in her arms, even though it makes no sense. He's not a wounded bird. He would hate the very thought of her pity. So she picks both mugs up carefully, tells herself this will help.

Until there is a large thump.

“Malcolm?” she says, feet frozen to the floor for a whole three seconds. “Malcolm.” Did he throw something? Certainly not. Drop something?

Instinct draws her from the kitchen, where the first thing she sees is the TV screen: on it, the Prime Minister, standing outside 10 Downing Street surrounded by dozens of microphones. His voice carries through the living room.

“...terribly sorry to see him go, but Malcolm Tucker has our full support in whatever he chooses to do next. We respect his decision to step away from politics, and are eager to begin this new—”

“Bollocks,” Rose spits, a fraction of a second before she notices the space where Malcolm should be standing is empty.

And he’s just lying there, face down.

On the floor.

Two mugs hit, a second after.

-

They won't let her ride in the fucking ambulance.

So she has to take his car. Which means she first has to find the spare keys—his must be in his coat pocket still, which he was wearing when they carted him off on a fucking stretcher—and by the time she does find them, the paps, who had only just begun clearing off when the ambulance showed up, are back in force. She can barely edge the sleek, black BMW out of the driveway without taking out some camera guy’s kneecaps. Honestly, she almost slams the gas anyway.

By then, the flashing lights of the EMS are long gone, so she has nothing to clear her way. It takes ages—a lifetime, a trillion lifetimes—to make it to the hospital, and the whole time she keeps thinking, What if he's dead? You're looking at a ghost, darling. What if he's dead? On and on and on.

Her head is a traffic jam all on its own, leaving her unconscionably distracted while she finds a parking space. But she musters up a little dignity for the walk into A&E.

And yes, of course, she can already see the zombie horde waiting outside the doors, eager to get their teeth into the fearsome, famous Malcolm Tucker, so recently fallen from grace. It’s one hell of a story—a surprise resignation gone so awry that it put a former political colossus in hospital. And while it isn't likely they'll know what she is to him, she doesn't want to risk making a bad situation worse.

She pulls up the hood of her sweatshirt and plunges through the gathered mass, making straight for the door.

But she must have used up all her luck finding a place to park.

“Is that—?”

“That's her!”

“Rose?” one of the more aggressive paps shouts. “Rose Tyler?” Her hands ball into fists, and she shoves them in her pockets.

“Are you visiting a patient? Rose!”

Instead of shouting back—I don't know, you fucking pigs!—she just forces her way forward. The sight of an irritated-looking nurse jamming his head out the door is a lifeline above all the bobbing heads and enormous camera rigs.

“Rose,” cries another zombie-vulture-waste-of-space, “is it true that Malcolm Tucker left the government to work for your father's company?”

“Unless all of you are going to admit yourselves into this hospital, clear off!” The nurse is the one shouting now. “You are interfering with the care and safety of our patients!”

That, of course, sets off another round of shouted questions about Malcolm's condition, about Pete Tyler’s condition—what a laugh—and Rose despairs of ever getting through until the nurse notices her—perhaps her pink hood, or her horror-struck eyes—in the midst of them.

His own gaze sharpens, and he pushes the door open wider.

“Clear a path, or I'm calling security,” he says, voice heavy with threat. “Back off.”

It's not terribly intimidating, but it's enough for the frontmost row of hacks to back down, leaving just enough room for her to be spat out in the entryway. She stumbles a little, and the nurse catches her.

“You're not one of them, are you?” he asks, hesitating for just barely a second—but then she swipes off her hood, and his uncertainty vanishes.

He nods, eyebrows lifting, then slams the glass doors shut behind them. It quiets the paparazzi to merely a dull roar.

“So, the rumours are true.”

She knows what he’s seeing right now; it's the same thing everyone sees: Pete Tyler's apparently estranged daughter, the long lost Vitex heiress who came back out of nowhere—read: the Powell Estate—a year ago, after nearly a decade out of the limelight.

And, allegedly, Malcolm Tucker's scandalously young paramour.

That's always been the worst of it: the way people look at her as if she's a toddler, not twenty-seven years old. Pampered little rich girl. As if she hadn't been just as surprised as anybody when her parents reconnected, remarried. Reintroducing her to a small but overwhelming world, one where he happened to exist.

Everything had changed, and then it changed again the moment she descended that giant staircase outside the reception hall, still dressed in her ugly, frilly, Jackie-selected bridesmaid's gown—and there he was. Smirking at her behind his hand, the bastard.

He changed everything.

She sets her shoulders, trying to look like more than she is, and stares down the nurse—his badge says Rory, with a little smiley sticker next to it.

He isn't smiling at all, sensing her intentions. “I’m sorry, but only family are allowed to—”

“I'm his wife,” she interrupts with a lie, bald-faced and glaringly desperate. She doubles down. “Rose Tyler. We're married. It was a… secret thing. Family only. ‘Cause of the press, yeah?” The way she says press is positively vicious. “And my parents, you know, they had this huge wedding and it just seemed impractical to have two in a year. Such a waste of money…”

She's overcomplicating—babbling, in fact, making her story less believable with every word. Surely the paramedics will have left a record of her prior statements, panicked pleading between sobs. But in spite of Rory's dubious look, he seems inclined to take pity on her. Her heart hammers as he considers for an eternal moment, blinking several times in what looks like an effort to clear his head.

“Please,” she says. Her voice breaks. “I've got to see him.”

In a tone of utter resignation, he tells her the room number.

-

She doesn’t need the room number, in the end. She just follows the shouting.

“—unless you want me to fucking shove that syringe up your cockhole and wiggle it around like an X-rated re-enactment of the Very Hungry Caterpillar, you'd best remove this fucking IV—”

So, he's awake.

A gaggle of nurses are lingering either in or around the doorway, watching the shitshow like it’s a particularly engrossing episode of Hospital, and Rose has to clear her throat to get through them. Her pink hoodie stands out like a beacon among all the scrubs.

“How is he?” she pauses just long enough to ask, voice low under the roiling stream of vitriol pouring from the room. “What's happened?”

One of them, a woman with a badge that says Hame—adorned with yet another smiley face sticker—looks at her sheepishly.

“Are you—?”

“His wife.” The lie comes more fluidly this time. So fluidly the nurse doesn't even blink in surprise.

“He woke up in the ambulance,” Hame offers, “and he's been… like this… ever since he arrived.”

Rose's lids momentarily flutter with the effort not to roll her eyes. But the relief comes fast on the heels of irritation. All the blood which had been pounding through her legs, prompting her to run, dissipates; she can only give a dizzy nod in return and stumble through the doorway.

“—you fucking deaf? I’m fine, I feel fine, as I've been telling all of you for the last half an hour! Look, I was test-driving my new Victorian fainting couch and fell a little to the left, that’s all, no big fucking deal. I'm absolutely fine!”

“Malcolm,” she says.

And he looks at her.

His face—God, his face. It’s waxy, pale as the moon, and his hair is sticking up like he's been running his hands through it, or like he's been in a pub fight. This impression is further supported by the blooming discolouration on his right cheekbone. It must have been from the fall. The fall she missed, because she was making fucking tea.

He doesn't look small on the gurney, doesn't look weak or unnaturally still or withered or any of those things she's heard people say about visiting their loved ones in hospital. But he looks like he's gone ten rounds with something much, much stronger than he is. The whole world, maybe, has beaten him.

Her chin wobbles.

“Oh, not you fucking too!” His eyes, marginally sunken, get wide all of the sudden. “I'm just fine, Rose—lot of fuss over nothing, all right? Just—no, darling, don't you do that, don't—”

But it's too late.

Tears break free of her waterline as she lurches toward the hospital bed. She barely has the wherewithal to mind the IV—still attached, which he’s thrilled about, no doubt—as she wraps herself around the nearest piece of him she can reach. Which happens to be his arm, warding her off.

She pulls the pale limb to her chest, feeling its warmth. Letting it saturate her. She hides her face in his bent knuckles and lets out a watery, choked noise that's struggling not to be a sob.

“Can you just—Rose—fucking give us a minute, all right? You can get on with the anal probe or whatever the hell you plan to do to me later, just all of you get out of—yes, thank you, thanks a fucking bundle. All of you, scram.” Malcolm's voice sounds like it's coming down a very long corridor, echoing wrongly in her skull. She can't feel her knees, which is a strange thing to notice, because she's not normally aware of them at all. “Rose? Rose, come on, darling, you're making a scene.”

He reels her in by bending his arm, which moves stiffly. She holds it tighter, breathing deep. Trying to swim back to some kind of surface. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“S’all right. Hell of a day, isn't it?” he says, sounding more normal. Or maybe her ears are working right again. “Couldn't have come at a better moment. Seems I'm about to have quite a lot of time off.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not the one blubbering, now am I?” counters Malcolm. “That's enough, all right, save it for the funeral.” He seems to recognise that's the wrong thing to say just a beat too late, when her shocked gaze finds his.

“That's not funny,” she says. “That's not even remotely funny.”

Some of the force leaves him, rounding his shoulders. “I know.”

She goes on, refusing to let go of his hand. She's speaking directly into his fist, and she doesn't care. “Damn you, Malcolm, I told you! I said, ‘This job is gonna kill you,’ and look where we are!”

“I'm not dead yet,” he insists. “And, if I might point out—it was losing the job that nearly killed me.”

That's it—her knees can't take it any more. They just sort of go out from under her, and she's lucky she's close enough to collapse into a seat beside the hospital bed.

“You scared me,” she manages to say. “I don't—I'm not even sure what happened, I just heard this thud, and then you were there on the floor!” He makes a soft shushing noise, which she ignores. “You have to let them look after you, Malcolm, you can't just—”

“All right,” he interrupts, vocally reluctant. But the hand against her chin finally opens, fingers searching out her face. “Fine. Fine, Rose, but I'm sure it's nothing.”

She gives a watery laugh. “Yeah, just your life. You've only got the one, you know.”

“I know,” he nods. But she can't be sure if he really believes her—if it even matters to him.

(You're looking at a ghost, darling.)

-

It's not nothing. Of course it's not.

It's a myocardial infarction—a bloody heart attack. Mild, according to the doctor, but nothing to joke about. Rose doesn't want to budge from Malcolm's side, and she’s heard people are supposed to take notes with this sort of stuff, so she gets her phone out and starts typing out anything she can make sense of, anything that sounds even tenuously important, anything she can spell. She tries to ask questions.

Malcolm keeps shooting glances at her while the doctor coolly, calmly explains that this should be a wakeup call.

“Cardiac events of this nature are often a warning sign that other, more concerning events are incoming, such as another heart attack or a stroke,” he says, “unless serious changes are made in regards to health and stress levels. Your heart is functioning normally—for now.”

His emphasis makes Rose's own heart thump painfully.

“But we'd like to keep you overnight for observation, and in the morning, we will discuss a health management plan.”

Malcolm seems inclined to buck against authority, as he nearly always does, and Rose doesn’t mean to, but she squeezes his fingers so tight she can feel the bones shift. And he nods instead.

“All right,” he says, eyes sliding towards her. They look pale, bleached by the fluorescence. “One night.”

She doesn’t want to make a scene again, so she runs to the ladies room. But when she gets there, she can’t cry anymore. She can only face her reflection in the mirror.

She's the one who looks like a ghost.

-

When Malcolm finally falls asleep that night—a feat which seems nearly impossible with nurses coming and going—Rose slips out into the hallway and dials a number she's been avoiding for hours. Maybe longer, if she's honest.

“Hullo?”

It's—it's too much.

She sniffs, and realises her airways are so tight, swollen by all the tears still left to shed.

“Pete?” she creaks out.

The shift is instant. “Rose? What’s wrong, love?” She can imagine him sitting up straight in bed, probably patting around trying to get her mother up.

“Don't wake Mum.”

“All right, what's happened?”

“It's Malcolm. He…”

“Oh, God. Rose, I'm—I got the call, but I didn't—I’m sorry, love, it just seemed…”

“Like bullshit,” she flatly fills in the blanks for him. Impossible. Like something that would never, ever happen, not to him. “I know. But it's not. He had a heart attack.” Voice low, her eyes scan the hallway, dimmed for the night shift; even now, she fears the click of the camera shutter, of being seen. Of compounding the problem. “I’m here with him, and he's… He's not taken it well.”

Pete snorts, and she would laugh, too, except that she can't.

“I can imagine. Is there anything you need? We can come down, but—”

“The press, yeah,” she sighs. ��No, there's no need. Visiting hours are over anyway. I just wanted to ask…” The excess energy, the nerves build up like static until she's tapping her foot to try and let some of it out. “Look, I know I said I didn't want any money or favours or…”

“Anything, Rose. You know we’ll do anything.”

There's not a trace of blame in his voice, that's the worst part. Not even an ounce of bitterness.

He's always understood, ever since he came back into her life, that it might be too little, too late. That this—their non-relationship relationship—is not something to be solved by his money or his access. In fact, she’s sort of suspected he admires her decision to have nothing to do with Vitex, nothing to do with his public profile, regardless of how much it could benefit her. But…

Tears trail down her cheeks. It’s not for her, so it’s different.

“Two weeks at the lake cottage. Would that be—?”

He doesn’t even let her finish. “Of course.” She hears shuffling, rustling like he's gotten out of bed and started rooting around his nightstand. “I'll call Graham tomorrow, get it set up for you.”

“He can't do anything strenuous,” she adds, “and I don't want to leave him alone, so we'd have to order in for most things.”

“I'll take care of it,” Pete replies smoothly. “There’ll be fresh wood for the stove, too, if the temperature drops.”

Her voice comes out barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

“When do you want to go?”

“As soon as he's released.” There's a clutch in her chest, twin sensations of guilt and horror digging their hands in. She’s never planned more than a birthday present behind his back. “I’ll clear it with his doctor first, but I don't want to give him time to argue with me, and if we stay home—I mean, the paps'll be all over us. He won’t get a minute’s rest.”

If her father notices her misuse of the word “home,” he doesn't mention it.

“I'll handle travel arrangements,” is all he says. “D'you need someone to go and pack for you?”

“No, I can do it.” She sniffs, trying to gather herself. “Seriously, this is—I just want you to know…” But her voice dissolves.

“I know, love. I do.”

“I've got to go,” Rose manages, seconds or minutes later. The tears have slowed, and she can breathe again, and all she can think of is crawling back into that awful hospital bed beside Malcolm and falling asleep with his heart beating safely under her ear. Now that she’s got some sort of plan, she thinks she might have a shot at rest.

There’s just an instant of hesitation, then her dad says, “Rose? You know, Malcolm… he's been on his own a long time, love.”

That almost makes her scoff. As if she doesn’t know.

“Been making a ruin of his life, if you ask me, but he's always been self-sufficient. And if I’m honest, I don't think…” He trails off. She can sense that he’s searching for words, and presses her impatient lips together. She owes Pete that much, at least. “I don't think he knows how to let someone love him. Understand?”

Weakly, she answers. “Yeah.”

“So he might try to act like he doesn't need it, but he does. ‘Cause the way you love him—love, he'd be a fool to leave all that on the table.” There's urgency in his voice, an undercurrent of something she can’t identify. And then he says, “He's lucky to have you, Rose,” and she feels the words pressing into her heart, touching some aching place she's been pretending doesn't hurt. But it does hurt. “So lucky.”

It’s never stopped hurting.

“Never forget that.” The words come to her thick with tears, and she wonders if he’s been hurting, too. All this time. “All right?”

She squeezes her hand into a fist and wishes like she used to when she was just a kid. Wishes her father was here, with his arms around her.

This isn't that, but it's as close as they've been, maybe ever. As honest.

So she says, quietly, “All right, Dad.”

-

“Everythin’ okay?” Malcolm mumbles blearily. He’s blinking at her before she can even climb back into the hospital bed. And here she’d been all worried about waking him. But in second, his washed-out gaze is wide and alert—a shadow of his normal self—his hand lifting to make room for her beside him. “Thought you might've gone home.”

Home.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she shakes her head. “Don't be stupid.”

She wishes she could stop the renewed flow of tears, but she's too tired to turn them off—to do anything but curl up against him and let them soak his hospital gown.

“Not going anywhere,” she sniffs out.

Malcolm hums, but says nothing. Just strokes his hand up and down her arm. He's cooler than he should be, veins filled with foreign hospital fluids, so she nestles in, sharing her body heat. Their combined weight sinks them into the mattress, closer to each other. It's like a small pocket of shared gravity, belonging only to them.

“I called my dad,” she says, she doesn’t know how long after.

His hand pauses. “Oh, yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?” Talk about a non-sequitur.

There’s shifting against her, and she looks up, easing her weight off him in case he's uncomfortable. God knows he's got no chance of escaping, so at least she can not crowd him.

But he’s not trying to move. Just settling. “Rose,” he says, holding her gaze, “where's this coming from?”

She blinks.

“My heart, you berk.”

“I know that,” and he rolls his eyes, lids fluttering. “I mean, where is this leading to?”

“Well, I'm gonna ask you to do something I know you won't want to do, and before I ask, I just—I dunno, thought it would be important for you to know.” She almost pouts at his unchanging stare. “That I love you.” Nothing. “And that I'm asking because I love you.”

He answers too quickly. “No, I don’t think we should open things up to a third.” Quippy, light. The effort of it hurts her head.

“Jesus, Malcolm.”

“I know it works for a lot of people,” he blithely continues, ignoring her narrowing gaze, “but I’ve already sowed pretty much all the wild oats I want to sow.”

“Malcolm.”

“And we’re not getting a dog either.”

“I want you to take a break.” She meant to finesse it a bit, but no, she’s just blurting it out now and he’s just staring at her. Chin tucked, like they’re just curled up on the couch and she’s telling him she wants chips for dinner, again. “A holiday,” she presses on. “Two weeks. My dad’s got this place near Windermere, it’s called Rose Cottage—I know,” she adds, before he can even open his mouth to comment, “Rose Cottage, horrendous. He’s still getting the hang of apologies. But he said it’s ours if we need it, everything’s set up. It’s quiet, peaceful, but not so boring you’ll go mad locked up there, I think. Plenty to see in close walking distance. There’s a lovely garden and a library, and we can just take the train, and—”

She is rambling.

And he just watches her do it. Watches her dig this hole right in front of him. Possibly he’s trying to think his way out of the situation.

“I mean, if you don’t want me there,” to see you like this, god, please don’t say that, “if it would be better, we could hire a nurse and you can go by yourself. The important thing is you need to rest, but I didn’t think—I mean, it’s not just about you recuperating either. I guess I thought… we could…”

She shakes her head, wishing it would clear. Wishing she could say things in a more helpful way. But all she’s got is this endless stream of, Don’t go back, don’t go back there. Don’t go back to them.

“Can you take pity on me for, like, five seconds and say something, maybe?”

“All right,” he says. “C’mere, shift.”

He waits for her to resettle, her head in the curve of his shoulder, her arm poised carefully around his waist. She’s never been surprised by his capacity for gentleness, or his overt affection, though she’s sure it would shock the shit out of practically anyone else. Maybe not Pete. But to her, it always made sense. There’s the side of the moon you see, and then there’s what’s hidden beyond. Smudgy and impossible unless you look from a different angle.

Malcolm loves like that.

He lets her breathing regulate before he speaks again. “I don’t want to do that.”

Even laying down, her shoulders sag a little.

“I don’t want to turn off my phone, stay in some quaint little middle-of-nowhere called Rose fucking Cottage, doing nothing for two weeks while the world moves on. While my party makes a fucking laughingstock of itself—which,” he adds, “—I know they all will, more than likely already have. Fucking disaster waiting to happen.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of heat in his voice. The energy that is essentially Malcolm, his constant belief that the world should be better than this, that it’s always letting him down with its many varied incompetencies. But it fades back into something slower.

Sadder, she thinks.

“I don’t want to end my career notorious, with a heart attack that nobody’s happy I survived. Almost nobody,” he corrects when she moves to argue. “I don’t want a holiday, Rose. How you can even call it that when we both know you’ll be playing nursemaid—shuffling my sorry arse around, ordering takeaway and doling out probably a whole rainbow of little colour-coded pills… Jesus. It’s miserable, and humiliating, and frankly, it’s hardly a holiday at all. But it’s one I particularly don’t want to take without the woman I love.”

She blinks again, her eyelids feeling so heavy, mind so slow. But her heart lurches in her chest like it’s lighter than air. “Really?”

“Yes, darling. So I guess you’d better come along, if you think you can stand it.” He must feel how relieved she is. How every bit of her begins to unspool.

“I can.”

His lips land soft against her head, breath gusting out over her rumpled hair, and his hand resumes its steady path up and down her arm. She thinks that’s the end of it. Until: “You know, the doctor said something funny earlier, when you were out of the room. Called you my wife. ‘I’m glad your wife is so serious about your care,’ he told me.”

Oh, god. Honestly, she’d forgotten, in the midst of everything else. The lie she’d come up with in the heat of the moment, in her desperation to see him. She should’ve known it would get back to him somehow. It’s either very good or very bad that she’s too tired to react with appropriate embarrassment.

“He seemed to think quite highly of you. All your notes and questions. And I thought, ‘Now that’s interesting.’ ‘Cause I didn’t want to correct him.”

She can’t help it. Her arm tightens, her whole body burrowing closer. Ribbons of warmth trail through her, centralising around her heart. “They weren’t going to let me see you,” she says. It’s all the explanation she feels she needs.

“I didn’t want you to see me either.”

“That’s just stupid. I always want to see you.”

His chest judders with a silent laugh, and then he sucks in a short, pained breath. But he doesn’t let her squirm away, just holds her tighter. “I know,” he says quietly. “I have come to discover that I’m a very stupid man.”

“Well, I’m bloody brilliant, and I have a plan to get you better and keep you around for a long time, so don’t—you shouldn’t even bother arguing with me,” she says, going for some measure of authority. She can’t take her eyes off the machines at his bedside. Numbers blurring in and out, back and forth. Thinking, You’re not a ghost. There, look—your heart’s beating. “And even if you do, I won’t listen.”

It’s mine to keep.

“I’ll try not to.” She hears the smile in his voice. Smiles herself. It feels like a good stretch, muscles that need to be tended to after an endless tense day.

“You fight everyone,” she says. “You don’t have to fight me.”

He answers in a whisper, close. “I know.” Nobody else would believe it.

But it’s close enough to a promise. The words wash over her head, more air than sound, and she holds them tight while the world goes fuzzy and soft at the edges. And eventually, Rose sleeps, exactly as she wanted to. With his heart beating steadily, safely beneath her head.

[eccleston]

Doctor Who ◦ The Doctor Dances | The Thick of It ◦ Season 1 Ep 2

[caedmonfaith]

Fanfic Writer Wednesday

Okay, okay, okay. I have to rec this fic to you because I can’t stand myself.

So if you know me at all, you know that I am generally not a fan of crossovers. There’s nothing against them, but I’m just...it’s not my bag, baby. (with a couple of notable exceptions - mostly Broadchurch). 

You also probably know that I stick almost religiously to Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose and Tentoo/Rose.

Well that’s been turned on its pretty little head. 

@beth51276 talked me into reading a Malcolm Tucker/Rose Tyler fic. A DW/The Thick Of It crossover. 

I’m not going to say it’s the best fic I’ve ever read, because I refuse to name any one fic as my favorite. I just refuse. Hell, I won’t even do that with my own fics. I will say, however, that it’s as close to perfect as I’ve ever seen and I’ve been completely obsessed with it for the last three weeks. Seriously. I’ve probably read it at least five times. At least. IT IS SO GOOD. I want to write fanfics of this fanfic (and I’m not even joking. I really want to.)

Go read Stuck With You by gallifreyslostson and larxenethefirefly. It’s long (but that just means there’s more to enjoy), and Malcolm says ‘fucking’ a lot (which is, oddly, endearing as hell), and it’s just so good. The slow burn is more of a smolder (which is perfect), everyone’s character is ON POINT and I just can’t even. My ability to even has gone that-a-way. 

The only problem I have with this verse is that there’s not more of it (they promised more than SWY and the sequel!!)

Go read it. Do it now. Thank me later. xoxo

Edit - I was just informed that the authors of this amazing fic are @mercwithamouth and @dryadalis. Guys...you blew me away. It’s amazing. Thank you for writing it.

[natural--blues]

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Apple cider, and any variant of Tucker and Rose you’d like (I know you have a couple lol)

thinky! thank you so much for this prompt. i once again just sort of started another au with it, because i have no self control. i just love putting these two in Situations. or three, rather. wilf showed up in this one, for some reason. hope you enjoy (when you get your internet back, lol)!

read on ao3 here. or send me a prompt here!

-

something for nothing

-

"Hot," Rose asked, thrusting out her hands, "or cold?"

In each was a paper cup, the left one gently steaming while the older man glanced back and forth between them with his usual consideration.

"That depends. Is it chocolate?"

"Nope."

"Coffee, then?"

"No." She failed to stifle a grin. "Sylvia would have my head and you know it."

An extremely unnatural-looking scowl made its way across his face. "It's not one of those fancy 'steamer' things, is it? Those always end up tasting like plain old spoiled milk."

Rose shook her head in fond impatience. "Just pick one, will you? Or they'll both be cold."

His eyes narrowed beneath his bright yellow bobble hat. "Fine, then. Hot," Wilf finally declared. "But this had better not be like the time you put chewy stuff in my tea."

"Boba," she corrected. "And don't worry, only liquid in there. And some spices, of course."

At this, Wilf took a long inhale, his nose hovering just above the thread of steam. It was endlessly endearing, how dubious he was about the whole exercise.

Then again, she had just been a stranger who walked up and offered him eggnog, that first time.

It had been nearly a year ago, around the holidays, and she'd been leaving after another long, tedious shift at the café across the way. Her manager had given rare permission to close up early after Rose pulled a double, but she'd not taken advantage: instead, she'd satisfied an intense exhaustion-fueled craving for eggnog by whipping it up right there in the shop.

But she'd made a bit too much, and with no one to share it with, she'd spied the old man at his newspaper stall—such a merry figure, like Father Christmas himself in a heavy red-and-white striped scarf, packing up his stacks of paper like gifts bundled in twine. He'd looked so cheerful and so cold, with his red nose and fingerless gloves, that she went out and offered him a cup of still-warm eggnog. He'd kindly offered a copy of Radio Times in trade, and suddenly they were talking like old friends.

That had been the beginning of a ritual which she held to after nearly every shift she worked. She never emerged without two cups of something to share, and he always held aside a paper or magazine he thought she'd like. They didn't always chat, but they did undeniably enjoy one another's company.

Rose thought of him almost like an adopted grandfather.

She watched with amusement as he put his eye to the narrow hole in the lid like it was the lens of a telescope, trying to see the colour of the substance within. She bit down hard on her lip. "What can you see?"

"Not much," Wilf admitted.

"Drink it! I promise there's nothing odd in there—well, too odd, I mean."

He shook his head at her, but he was smiling as he went to take a sip. She waited, holding her breath—and was delighted when his eyes lit up.

"Oh, that's not bad," he proclaimed, "not bad at all!" As he took another sip, Rose finally lifted her own cup to her lips.

Ripe apple, cinnamon, nutmeg—a faint hint of smoke—even cold, it all burst over her tongue, evoking a sense memory disconnected from anything she'd ever personally experienced. It reminded her of campfire nights after crisp autumn days, falling leaves and waning grey skies. Days so perfect they could really only exist in films, or books, or daydreams.

"It's cider, but with a little—something! Very good, Rose," Wilf added warmly. "So, what's the secret?"

"An infusion of lapsang souchong while the cider's warming up." She was a little proud of that one. "And all the usual suspects—clove, cinnamon, a tiny bit of anise… I have more," she said, patting her thermos where it stuck out of her messenger bag. She'd planned to take it home and sip it with her feet up in front of the telly, but seeing how eagerly Wilf drank from his cup made her want to share more instead. "Want a refill?"

"Let me see to what I've got first," he said, after another savoring sip. "It's good stuff! Is it going on the menu?"

She scoffed. "Of course not. Nobody around here wants fussy cider. They just want tea, or else coffee, black, no sugar—god, if you only knew how many red eyes I make in a day…"

"Well, it is Westminster," Wilf reasoned, looking around at the street which, while presently quiet, was crowded with buildings still fully lit up at long past six. "There's always some crisis they're perverting."

Rose hesitated. "You mean averting?"

"I meant what I said," he replied with a chuckle. "Takes a lot of energy to play at running the world."

"Yes, well, I just wish they'd get a bit more creative with their drink orders while they do it. Civilisation won't end if one of them branches out and adds a shot of vanilla to their latte! And," she went on, voice hushing dramatically, "then there's the peacoats. They all wear the same bloody shapeless things. What is with that?"

"Speaking of peacoats…" Wilf coughed, clearly covering a laugh. "Evening, Mr. Tucker!"

Rose tripped over her own feet whirling around to see who he was talking to, and then nearly stumbled up again when she saw who it was.

Malcolm Tucker.

The Malcolm Tucker.

The scariest man in British politics, and possibly in Great Britain generally, stood about a foot away from her.

She recognised his face from Wilf's newspapers and the occasional clip on telly: fair eyes, humped nose, harsh lines bracketing a restless mouth, head crowned with tarnished silver hair. Under the flat, unforgiving light of the street lamps, he looked hyperreal. But even someone who didn't know his face would see evidence of his hand everywhere. He ruled the media with it. He puppeted the ministry with it.

And he was shaking Wilf's hand with it.

"Wilf, how the fuck's business?" he greeted, breezing right past her, smiling with the kind of familiarity that couldn't be faked. It even looked sincere. He brushed close enough that she could smell the wool of his coat, and she winced.

"Better, now that your mug's back out of the papers, sir!" Wilf laughed, and strangely, so did Tucker. "What'll it be today? We've got the New Statesman, fresh out this morning. There's an interview with your man, that baldy economist—"

But the other man brushed him off carelessly. "Oh, please, none of that, I'm off the clock."

"What brings you round, then?" For a second, Wilf's eyes darted sheepishly her way, and she could only goggle back in confusion. It was like he didn’t want to give something away, something secret. To Tucker, he said, voice low, "Celebrity Skin?"

Rose's jaw dropped. "Wilf!"

"Now, now, Rose, you can hardly fault the man! Just because he's in government doesn't mean he's made of metal."

"It's not him scandalizing me," she shot back with a laugh. "Wilfred Mott, I learn something new about you every day."

“Got to keep you interested, don't I?” Teasing though his tone was, there was also a glint of genuine pride as he added, “Or else I'll stop getting the best hot drinks in London hand-delivered to me!”

They were so busy sharing smiles that it took her a moment to remember they had audience. A rather intimidating audience. One of his iron-dark eyebrows was arched in something like humour. “That so?” Tucker said, eyeing her up and down.

“She’s more than just a pretty face, she is,” Wilf replied, and she felt herself flush. Whether it was from Wilf’s blunt, overenthusiastic praise or the assessing look she was receiving from the Prime Minister’s media enforcer, she couldn’t tell. “You should—oi, Rose, why don't you give him a little of that cider stuff? Mr. Tucker looks cold. Or maybe that’s just his personality.”

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, amused by the blatant ribbing. He’d accompanied it with a wink, and Tucker didn’t seem offended. In fact, his smile was back, spreading slowly, like it was foreign to his mouth.

“Not sure that's a good idea, actually,” she said.

“Why not?” asked Tucker, locking eyes with her for the first time. There was just something about his face; she knew she ought to be intimidated by him—and maybe she was, a little—but she was at least equally fascinated. He looked just like a man, ordinary.

Except not.

His gaze was too intense for that. Like it was used to cutting right through people. All day, people with glazed-over eyes muttered orders at her—barely seemed to even notice her. It was a startling change, to feel so… observed.

She blinked. “Do you usually risk drinks from strangers?”

“You're saying you wouldn't, if you were me?”

“If I were you—there’s an idea,” she dared with a breathless laugh. “If I were you, we probably wouldn't have quite so many bald, boring blokes in office. And things would probably get a bit more West Wing. But I wouldn't risk poisoning, no.”

“You're clever, then.” The smile that played around his mouth was a shade off the one he’d offered Wilf, but she liked it all the same. “Cleverer than me.” Her eyebrows jumped, and the corners of his lips only ticked higher. “I'd love a warm drink, if you can spare one. It's been a… very long day.”

And she didn’t know quite how, or why, or anything at all, but her hands just started moving on their own, sliding down the strap of her bag to the pouch with her thermos. She was actually going to share her drink with the Hitman of Downing Street, the thing that lurked under the beds of the ministers she saw on television.

You couldn’t make this stuff up.

“Easy, now,” Tucker drily warned. “No sudden moves. I might get clever.”

She chuffed a laugh. “Not likely.” But she slowed anyway, attention bouncing momentarily to Wilf—who was watching their exchange with a rapt and wildly amused expression—before she turned back to Tucker.

His eyes were more reflective of the colour of the sky than she’d ever imagined eyes could be. So blue and grey that it was like looking through the clearest water at the river stones beneath.

She couldn't quite shake off the observation—couldn't manage an appropriate amount of detachment as she withdrew the thermos and twisted it open. Concentrated steam burst free, smelling sweet and enticingly sharp, and she extended the mug out to him.

He took it. And when their fingers brushed over the warm metal, it hit her.

Attraction.

What she was feeling was attraction.

Her first thought was oh, Mum’s going to brick herself if I tell her. Which, of course, Rose wouldn’t. After Jimmy Stone and the complete fiasco he’d created in her life as a teenager, she knew better. But what would Jackie Tyler say about Malcolm bloody Tucker? He'd been working in politics for practically half Rose’s lifetime.

She could just imagine her mum's face, the repulsion and horror, and the picture was incongruous enough that it successfully pulled Rose out of her stupor. She withdrew her hand, feeling the cold snap of air instantly, more fiercely than she might have.

With a tense eye, she watched him lift the thermos to his lips. Watched him drink, slow and contemplative. He didn't seem particularly slow or contemplative by nature, so it must have been for her benefit. Her fingers made fists, which she wedged into her coat pockets.

He took another sip. Then proclaimed, “That's very good. Is that tea I taste?”

Her smile bloomed without thought or permission. “Secret recipe,” she said. “Now you owe me four pounds fifty.”

Those eyebrows leapt again before resettling even lower than before. He looked very intent. “You charge our mutual friend,” and here, he glanced at Wilf, “for cider, too, or is it just me who pays for the privilege?”

“Well, you know what your sort say—no such thing as a free lunch. Or cider,” she added, realising exactly what was about to come out of her mouth and doing nothing at all to stop it. “Wilf pays me back in magazines and good conversation. So what'll you give me, Malcolm Tucker?”

And god, she was actually doing it. She was flirting with him.

Beside her, Wilf was laughing into his fist. Part of her was embarrassed—or would be later—that she was making a fool of herself in front of the old man. He’d certainly rub her nose in it the next time she popped out with a drink. That was just what family did.

But there was another part of her, a much deeper and more untameable part, which insisted on saying, What the hell? Why not?

After all, this would probably be her only chance to tease one of the most powerful men in England. The prospect of pushing him, even a little, felt dangerous, rebellious. Deliciously improbable. And if there was a little extortion involved, well—he was hardly a man with clean hands.

One of those hands, she noted, slid into the pocket of that ridiculous peacoat—which was, she could admit, beginning to grow on her a little; it contrasted sharply against his skin and hair, so pale and severe—and he withdrew something small and white and rectangular. He extended it to her, but before she could take it, his hand snapped back. He seemed on the verge of smiling again.

Then, tipping back his head, he took another long drink from the thermos. A long, long drink.

She grinned, watching his throat bob. The bastard was draining the mug. Getting his money’s worth, she supposed.

She found she didn't mind. Her evening was shaping up to be substantially different than she’d expected.

Only when he'd finished with a faint hum of appreciation and returned the thermos did he give over the proffered card. It was simple, unremarkable white cardstock with crisp black text.

Malcolm Tucker

Director of Communications for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom

10 Downing Street, Westminster, London

Below were two phone numbers. One was crossed out, the smudged ink suggesting he’d done so recently. The second number was indicated as his personal line, and her breath caught. Was he mad, handing out this information to a veritable stranger? Did he know the trouble she could make for him if she started, say, making copies and handing them out with every cup of coffee she sold to his more politically repellant enemies? Of which there were many?

“Don't get clever,” he warned her, and there was a trace of real threat there. She felt it. It made her spine straighten and something senselessly warm unfurl in her belly. Then he said, mildly, “Call it an IOU.”

She looked up at the man before her and wondered if he was mad—or perhaps just fearless—or possibly, she guessed with a tilt of her head, he was lonely.

But whatever he was—and however much she needed to get her head checked for being so intrigued by it—there was only one way to find out.

Rose slipped the card into the back pocket of her denims, meeting his unwavering eyes the whole time, smiling to herself. She bit down on the tip of her tongue to prevent it spreading.

“Well,” she said, trying to sound tough, “it’s not exactly four pounds fifty. But it’ll do.”

Tucker smirked. And—oh, yeah, she thought. Mum’s definitely gonna lose it.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Ok! So! Prompt time: emotional hurt/comfort + Malcolm x Hannah (or twelve x rose but it’s more fun to see Malcolm in this situation) BUT it’s Hannah (or Rose) who needs some serious comfort.

oh, i love this prompt!! so much!! i went with rose & tucker for this one because i had an idea come to me right away for them, hope you don't mind. also, please be advised that this fic involves grief over a canon character death.

enjoy!

to read on ao3, click here!

-

The morning of November 7th dawns cold and pale, with his mobile buzzing angrily toward the edge of his nightstand and no Rose beside him.

Now, Malcolm Tucker is not a romantic by even the most vigorous stretch of the imagination, but only one of those two things feels like an emergency.

He silences his mobile.

Sliding out of bed, he reaches for a jumper—a deep, rich shade of green he never would have picked for himself—and pads across the bedroom toward the hissing sound of the shower running.

One thing he's learned about Rose in the course of their… entanglement—is that she is not a morning person. Her aversion to alarm clocks is on par with his reaction to phone calls from Number 10 these days. As in, there's usually a lot of swearing involved, maybe some hives.

But if Rose being awake at this hour is unusual, her being conscious enough to shower is unheard of. Which makes it either a miracle on par with loaves and fishes, or a catastrophe.

"Rose?"

She gives no answer, or at least, not one that he can make out over the spray of water. But the door is cracked, and he pushes it open further to get a better look. It takes him several seconds to recognise why the air feels wrong: it's cold.

There's no steam billowing out from behind the curtain, and the unexpected draft indicates that the little porthole window behind her is open. An icy feeling slices through him, unrelated to the chill autumn air.

"Rose," he says again, a little more sharply. "Are you in there? Is this some kind of horror film set-up we're doing? You should know I've never seen Psycho."

There's confirmation of life in the sound of a sniffle, which could be a laugh but—his chest tightens—probably isn't.

"Don't come in," she mumbles.

"Why, have you got a knife?"

"That's not what h-happens in Psycho."

Mouth falling into a grim line at the unsteadiness of her voice, he reaches for the curtain.

"Okay, what the fuck is going—"

Shit. His heart does something his cardiologist probably would not like, and his hand falls limp at his side. Shit, and also fuck.

Because Rose is sitting in the very corner of the tub, down to her knickers and the ringer shirt he'd lent her to sleep in. She's curled up there, like she's trying to be a tiny ball instead of a person.

"Jesus Christ, have you lost your mind?" he snaps. "It's fucking freezing in here." When he reaches through the shower spray to touch her, he hisses at the temperature and withdraws. The water's cold, too. Frigid.

She bundles tighter into herself. "Just go, Malcolm, please."

His jaw locks.

Yeah, there's no way in hell he's going to just turn around and prance off to make his morning coffee while his… whatever-she-is has some kind of meltdown in his fucking shower that apparently requires subarctic temperatures.

"It's my bathroom, actually, so I think I'll stay, thanks," he shoots back, not bothering to regulate his tone.

For someone who has spent approximately twenty-three hours of every day in a state of unhinged stress for the last two decades, he is aware he should probably be hardened to the feeling by now. The two years he's been out of the business isn't nearly enough time for the conditioning to fade. But for some reason, seeing Rose in this condition has him reeling like it's his first press tour. His mouth takes off without his permission.

"I mean, talk about psycho. Is this some kind of new beauty routine I don't know about, like kiwi fucking facials and sperm hair treatments? 'Cause I have to say, I don't care for this particular trend. You'll freeze your perfectly lovely tits off, for one thing. And for another, you—Rose?"

He stops short, watching a tremble travel through her. It's like the ground during an earthquake, moments before a fissure opens—before damage becomes destruction. Unsalvageable.

She's trying not to cry. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Okay, you're actually scaring me now," he says, voice going flat. "What's happening here? Do I need to call a doctor? A psychic?" Her chin jerks up, and she stares at him with reddened eyes. "A priest?"

"No." The word is harsh, but he doesn't give a shit, because she comes a little back to life as she says it. Her eyes flare up at him beneath clotted, dark lashes. "I'm n-not possessed. God. You're so—I just… need a minute, all right?"

"Well, I'm sorry, darling, I don't think you have a minute before hypothermia sets in. You're turning fucking blue."

She seems intent on ignoring him—or perhaps she's just ignoring reality in general—because she promptly buries her face in her arms again, where they're crossed over her bare knees.

He's not lying; there is a strange lavender cast to her toes, her kneecaps, the tips of her fingers. She looks like a wax doll version of herself. But if she won't do anything about it, it's apparently fucking up to him.

Sighing, he braves the frigid shower spray again to reach for the knob, turning it towards the heated side. A new rush of warmer water soaks his sleeve.

So much for his nice, cosy morning plans.

"Look, just tell me what's going on," he tells her slowly, reaching over her head to tug the window closed, "and then if you really want me to leave you to it, I will."

It takes her about a full minute under the spray to stop shivering—longer for some colour to return to her skin, and even longer than that to answer him.

He knows she's working on it by the flexing of her fingers and toes, the gentle rocking motion she makes as she attempts to build her courage. He knows all the signs. The words are just sitting in there like stones; she's just struggling to pick them up and actually say them. And hell if he hasn't been there before.

Finally, she lifts her head again. Her cheeks are ruddy, and he realises she's been crying for a long time.

"My dad's dead."

Totally lacking in emphasis, her words still hit him like a ton of bricks. A one-two-three punch of deadpan delivery.

"Shit." No, that's not right. His brain is full of fucking smoke alarms. "I'm sorry." Better.

"Yeah." The silence dangles for a second. "It's nothing to do with you."

That takes him out at the kneecaps, and suddenly he's sitting on the lip of the tub, catching his breath. What the hell? "I… didn't think it was." He hesitates before asking, "When?"

Her eyes close. "He died 27 years ago today."

"Jesus. Rose, why didn't you tell me?"

"When exactly was I s-supposed to slip it into conversation, Malcolm?" Her lids bat back open in a second, and she turns her most challenging glare on him. "When you made that stupid joke about daddy issues, was I supposed to go, 'Surprise! My dad did actually die when I was six months old, but please have sex with me anyway'? And then," she barrels on, "we decided we weren't, you know, serious or whatever, and I kept assuming it would… end eventually? But we just kept seeing each other and the date kept creeping up, and I ignored it, because it's not like you're my fucking boyfriend."

The whiplash of her cursing would probably make him laugh if he wasn't feeling so desperately miserable.

"And then I came over last night and you—and then I… decided to stay…" She shakes her head, damp strands of hair whipping against her cheek. There are blueish shadows under her eyes, violently contrasting with the red. "And I thought I could handle it and it would be fine, but then I woke up and I just—I couldn't… I just kept thinking—" and that's the last word that makes it out of her before her air supply seems to shut off. Her chest shudders and her eyes close, and he wants to peck out his own fucking liver for letting this entire awful situation come to be.

"You have to take a breath every now and then," he scolds instead. "Fuck's sake."

To his intense concern, that doesn't even earn him a withering look. Just a continuation of the weird hitching rhythm of her chest. Her hands clench tighter around her knees, dimpling the skin with pale half-moons. Looking at her is borderline unendurable.

He groans. "Fuck this." And then he swings around over the ledge of the tub, kicking his limbs inside, where they are immediately soaked.

It's a big enough tub—compared to the size of his flat, the shower stall is almost impractically decadent—but it's not really meant for two. A fact he is keenly aware of as he goes to his knees beside Rose's shivering, twitching body.

Careful, he takes her by the shoulders and turns her around, then he spreads his knees as far as he's able—thanking hell he didn't decide to change into denims before this—so she can sort of sit in between them. He pulls her in until her curved back touches his chest.

The cotton clinging to her is still too cool, and he is grateful for the hot spray that continues to fall around them. At least, if they're going to be wet through, they can still share some goddamned body heat.

It's with this goal in mind that he wraps his arms around her—his whole body, hunching in over the snarled knot of her form. Letting their breathing fall into a shared, slower rhythm. "That's it," he feels himself say, like he's down some tunnel, far away from himself. "Just breathe with me, there's a girl."

He doesn't know how long they sit there like that: long enough for his knees to begin aching, and for the air to go humid against his nose, soft with the smell of her hair.

Her shampoo is sunny, somehow. Citrus, with something fresh and green.

"This is fucking ridiculous," he mumbles eventually. "You should have told me."

"I—" she starts, but he squeezes.

"Yes, yes. I should have made it easier for you to tell me, I know," he grinds out. "I'm an arsehole. And I shouldn't have said that shite about our ages either, because it only called attention to what's basically obvious to anyone with one or more eyes in their head. Which is that you can do far, far fucking better than me."

The worst part, which he does not mention, is that he hadn't even fucking meant anything by that whole 'daddy issues' bit. It had just felt expected, somehow—after the zoo that was his trial and with the zombie horde dogging his steps post-acquittal, he'd felt like an acknowledgement had to be made in case some hack wearing a wire was sitting nearby, just waiting to turn her relative youth and incredible beauty into a new headline in a smear piece.

The disgraced former spin doctor desperately pawing at a woman half his age would undoubtedly make a good photo op. So instead, he'd been snotty and perverse. And now he's paying for it.

Worse, she's paying for it.

"You should, by the way," he adds, feeling her hand squeeze back, curled somewhere around his wrist. "I'm serious. Anyone would be better. A fucking dogcatcher with a furs shop. A monk. I could set you up with fucking Ollie Reeder, so long as you don't mind that he's gay."

To his relief, she actually snorts. It's a laugh, liquified and wobbly, but real. "Oh, shut up."

"And I… I'm sorry about your dad." He swallows, having to force down a new wave of panic—not to do with her, this time. It's all him.

He braids their fingers together, feeling like a fucking pansy and trying to focus on the drumming water against his back. He so rarely fears inadequacy, but this is one area in which he's failed again and again and again.

He's been reliably informed that he is not a comforting presence.

"I really am, darling," he adds weakly.

"It was a long time ago," she says. "I barely even remember him."

"That doesn't make it easier, does it?"

Half of him waits for her to stiffen or recoil, while the logical part of his brain is forced to admit that Rose would never. She's far too kind.

That's always been his issue, really. She's just so goddamn kind, and he could kick himself in the head for taxing that. Keeping her at arm's length when she obviously doesn't want to be, making her feel like the showerhead would be a better listener. Christ.

She breathes deep instead, and her body unfolds itself until her head is resting on his chest.

"No," she admits. A long exhale. "It really doesn't."

The air is properly foggy now. Her skin is pink where he can see it. But he doesn't let go of her, and she gives no indication of wanting him to. He can feel the grief subsiding in the air, sucked down the drain.

That's the way of it: it comes in waves. And when it's gone, you might not resemble who you were before it.

"Ollie Reeder," she says, some indefinable time later. "God. I would literally rather donate my vagina to the National Trust. That's repulsive."

He kisses her shoulder, wishing fleetingly that it was bare. "Accept my apology."

"You know you didn't actually apologise for anything," she scoffs, sounding more and more like herself. "Except for my dad which, according to a near-thirty-year-old police report, you had nothing to do with."

But he kisses her again, and again, and she sighs. He likes to think she does so at least a little bit because it feels nice.

"Of course I forgive you, dickhead." He puffs a laugh against her, tightening his grip, and she settles into it like a cat in a sunray. Fucking unbelievable. "I know we haven't… really talked about it properly, Malcolm, but I—I mean, I get it, you know?" Two of her fingers fiddle with his damp sleeve. "Neither of us is particularly trusting."

"Understatement of the millennium."

"But I want to," she goes on, words seizing his heart in his chest. Seriously, Dr. Jones is going to kill him at their next appointment. "Trust you, I mean. Is that stupid?"

Her bones under his hands feel strong and sturdy, and her flesh is as forgiving as the rest of her, and he finally allows himself to feel all the fear he's been keeping at bay since the moment they met on that street corner, two in the morning. It had felt like a colossal fuck-up waiting to happen, or like an undeserved stay of execution.

"Yes," he answers shortly. "Probably so." He clears his throat, the sound feeling too loud in the close space. "But at least we're on equal idiot footing."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the motion of her cheeks, and when she tilts her head up to look at him, she's smiling. Blotchy and sweet.

Malcolm Tucker is not a romantic man. He's just fucking not. But he'd swear up and down in a court of law that he could get lost in Rose Tyler's gaze and be perfectly happy for it.

His fear fades into a background hum, suddenly fucking unimportant. He feels himself soften in ways he's still figuring out how to allow.

After a moment, her tongue slides between her teeth. "You've really never seen Psycho?"

He rolls his eyes with a groan. "What is with this generation and your relentless nostalgia?" he complains. "There are about five hundred brand new superhero movies to choose from and you want to watch some old—"

With her hands on his for balance, Rose pushes up a little, stretches her spine, and shuts him up with a kiss.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

TWELVEROSE/TUCKERROSE AU | The Communications Director & The Call Girl

[ID: a set of four gifs with edited captions to give the appearance of a phone conversation between AU rose and AU twelve/tucker. the first gif is of rose in the bath; her phone is resting next to her on a stool. she's captioned as saying, 'hello?' the second gif is a closer-up shot of twelve/tucker's face as he leans forward in his office chair. he's saying, 'oh, am i your booty call now?' the third gif is of rose leaning slightly closer to her phone, saying, 'd'you know what a booty call actually is?' the fourth and final gif is back to twelve/tucker, who seems amused and slightly offended as he says, 'well, i learned from you!' /END ID]

[gingerteaonthetardis]

𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒 (1/?) | Stuck With You

by gallifreyslostson & larxenethefirefly

ᴍᴀʟᴄᴏʟᴍ ᴛᴜᴄᴋᴇʀ x ʀᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʏʟᴇʀ, ᴇ, 100ᴋ+

"What’s he for anyway? Why do you need him?"

"I’ll tell you why you need me, Rose Tyler," he sneers. "Because the media doesn’t have a thing on you for the last, what, twenty years? And now you’re suddenly priority person of interest as the mysterious Vitex heiress. For all they know, you’re a nutter who’s been locked away from the public till now!"

"I’m not a nutter!" she argues hotly, surging to her feet to stand toe to toe with him.

"No, you’ve just come from a parallel universe to play house with your parallel dad and not-so-parallel mum—who’s supposed to be fucking dead, I might add—because you were helping your space boyfriend and lost your grip when he opened a portal to hell. Yes, that’ll sell quite nicely!"

[gingerteaonthetardis]

ᴛᴜᴄᴋᴇʀʀᴏꜱᴇ • ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟ ɢɪʀʟ

“Of fucking course,” he says. “I should’ve known those weren’t the legs of a public servant.”

The woman turns on her heels—now, with clarity of mind, he notices that they’re rather too high to be strictly professional, almost a parody of business attire—and she’s already smiling, teeth embedded in her bottom lip like she’s been caught in a lie.

“I don't know,” she shrugs. “I like to think I serve the public in my own way.”

[gingerteaonthetardis]

TwelveRose AU : DW x TTOI x SDOACG

According to Sam, the man can speak a mile a minute—no one in government can keep up with him.

But she, Rose Tyler, a call girl with no A-levels, is going to have to try.

Or rather, Belle de Jour is going to have to try.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

wanna prompt me? go for it! my ask box is currently open.

what i will write for:

DW: timepetals in all* forms (nuwho and classic); doctorjackrose; rose x any companions who give off even an ounce of gay energy (bill, ace, charley, martha, clara, donna, idgaf i will write it); charleightrose (iykyk)

DWxTTOI: malcolm tucker x rose tyler (let's face it, none of you know what i'm on about with this one. but i live in hope.)

BTVS: spuffy

TXF: msr

TWILIGHT: bella x jacob; bella x paul; bella x really any of the wolves because tbh the cullens don't exist to me; bella x jessica

ORIGINAL STUFF: ???? (i will literally just spitball about the high context shit that lives rent free in my head. werewolf polycules, bisexuals in the underworld, regency dramas, girls who accidentally made god fall in love with them... like, it will truly just be Whatever I'm Thinking About Today. no idea why you'd want that, but it's an option.)

*with one exception—i do not currently take tentoorose prompts, as i've done a lot of them in the past and am honestly just burnt out. sorry, guys.

do i accept nsfw prompts? yes! if you want your fill to be nsfw, please be sure to include that in the ask! (if you specifically ask for something that is a squick or trigger for me, i might have to pass and i'll let you know, no hard feelings.)

do i write quickly? no! please be patient, i do this in my free time.

how long will the prompt fill be? depends on a variety of factors! how i'm doing mentally/physically, how much time i have, what i want the fic structure to be, how inspiring the prompt is... safe answer is more than 1k words, but less than 5k. (unless i go buck wild for some reason. it's happened before.)

do i only write shippy stuff? no! i accept prompts for platonic dynamics, though usually not for characters i write as a couple. (for example: platonic doctorrose would be... challenging for me and i'd prefer to write something else, but platonic rose and mickey? other friendships, canon or fanon? i can do!)

"i have a really specific prompt in mind, not something from the prompt lists you've shared. will you accept it?" if it's about the characters we both know and love, probably, yeah! send it and see!

"i have absolutely nothing in mind, but still want to prompt you...?" that's totally fine! here are some prompts for your perusal:

three words + a character/pairing

august prompts

october one word writing challenge

doctor x rose christmas prompts

a hundred assorted prompts

physical affection prompts

two characters + a prompt

blossoming romance prompts

"accidentally turned on" otp prompts

"i want to ask for a pairing/character you didn't include, though." for now, please don't (unless you are a treasured mutual and we've discussed this beforehand). there are plenty of wonderful writers in the world who might be better able to give you what you want!

finally, to read past prompts or other fics, check out my AO3! (there's no spuffy there, alas. but i'm trying to fix that...)

[gingerteaonthetardis]

I didn’t know Rose Tyler/Malcolm Tucker was a thing until I just recently looked at your blog and all I have to say is WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME KFKDJEKRKRKRJFJ

okay, see, the thing is... it's not my fault, because i only fell into this ship because of @lotsofthinkythoughts who told me about the fic stuck with you which quickly became one of my all-time faves because it's just so damn soft... and then i started writing all my own little ficlets because i was just so overwhelmed with feelings about them... so it's technically not my fault...

[gingerteaonthetardis]

prompt: 31 days of ficmas - cider

pairing: in a completely unsurprising crossover... tuckerrose

word count: 2343

rating: m, because... i mean, it’s fucker tucker

It is Christmas Eve, and he is drinking.

He hates pubs during the holidays, though an observer might not assume such, based on how much time he spends haunting them. But that’s only because Malcolm Tucker has come up with a system, of sorts. Shortcuts. 

For example, if the pub has those irritating twinkle lights up over the bar, reflecting off the bottles and the shiny wood surfaces, he leaves immediately—just turns heel and goes. Those places are not for him.

If the bartender—male, female, or otherwise—is wearing an elf hat, he also leaves. Simple.

If any patrons are wearing elf hats, he might stay, but only long enough to determine whether someone will burst into song. At the first hint of oncoming caroling, he fucks right off. In fact, if the establishment is so much as playing music involving jingle bells, he fucks off. He has a zero tolerance policy on Christmas music.

He has a zero tolerance policy on most things, actually.

All in all, it leaves precious little in the way of options. It’s how he normally ends up at the same sorts of watering holes, night after night, with the other humbugs. He’s grateful for the absence of festivity, if for nothing else. Certainly not for the shoddy quality of the swill they all serve.

Still, he thinks to himself, reminiscing on workplace parties past, there are worse ways to spend an evening. 

Visions of Terri in felt antlers and brightly-colored trainers dance behind his eyelids like sugarplums, as she rushes about like one of Saint Nick’s more bitchy beasts of burden. Jamie, spiking the punch and then drinking all of it, hoarding the plastic punch bowl like a dragon with a drinking problem. Ollie, still alive, somehow. Breathing in Tucker’s general vicinity, the bastard. It’s a miracle someone (namely Tucker) doesn’t strangle him. And whoever the little girl is, the blonde one, wishing him a happy holiday with puppy-eyed sincerity before spilling boiling hot coffee down his tie, which is a festal thing in itself—two reindeer, both of them male, based on the antlers, coupling in celebration of Christ’s birth. Their bodies get lost in the onslaught of brown sludge.

The images are a grotesque fantasy, played out in swirls of eye-melting technicolor vomit, and they give him a headache. Or maybe that’s the alcohol.

Tucker digs his fingers into the sockets of his eyes, hoping to rub away the pain.

“Paracetamol?”

When he opens his eyes, there is a little blonde girl looking at him from just down the bar. Not the one from DoSAC. A different blonde girl. He squints at her, trying to place—trying to guess whether he knows her or she knows him or—

“I’ve got some in my purse,” she clarifies, reaching into her leather bag, faded and clearly fake and sitting haphazardly on the stool between them. After a moment, she withdraws a rattling packet of pills. She crooks a little half-smile. “Promise it’s not oxy. I don’t waste good shit on strangers.” 

He doesn’t laugh, or answer at all, and her cheeks go a touch pink. Good, he thinks. She’s making a fool of herself.

“That was a joke, actually.”

He remains silent, wondering if this girl will keep talking indefinitely or if she’ll eventually realize he doesn’t want to be fucking bothered on her own. They so rarely do.

She slides the silver packet his way. There are a few places where the tabs have been popped out, but it’s mostly full. He eyes it, and then looks back up at her.

“Looks like you need ‘em more than I do,” she shrugs. He hadn’t asked a question, but that doesn’t seem to matter to her. The girl’s eyes are bright and earnest in the hazy light of the bar. And she doesn’t perch on the barstool; rather, she’s settled comfortably, denim-covered legs hanging wide and swinging. Her shoelaces rhythmically slap at the metal rungs. She is familiar with this place. She is, he assumes, familiar with men like him.

Men who are drinking alone at Christmas.

He turns back to his whiskey, his finger tapping irritably. His wedding ring against the glass sends out little metallic chimes—a hollow sound. To stop himself hearing it, he lifts the tumbler to his lips and empties it. The only sound is him swallowing, the only sensation is burning. It’s a good feeling, warming his throat and his chest and then, after a moment, his stomach.

“Can I buy you the next one?”

His patience doesn’t snap so much as give, like a rotting tree finally drooping to the earth. “Fuck off, darling.” His voice sounds tired, even to him.

She snorts. “Happy Christmas to you, too.”

“I’m Jewish.” He’s not, but he really wants her to shut her hole. He wants to go back to his miserable drinking in peace. And—he tries not to grimace—he wants to take some of those painkillers before this headache blossoms into an honest-to-goodness, tooth-rattling throb.

Her answering laugh is even less elegant than the first, and much more expansive. It echoes over the bar and up into the dusty rafters. Shaking her head, she insists, “Bullshit! You’re Scottish Presbyterian if you’re anythin’—wouldn’t be so miserable otherwise.” He wonders how she can be so brazen, so completely not put off by his stodgy old man routine. Hell, he’s put off by it. But she just grins at him and tosses her hair. “What are you drinkin’?”

“Whiskey.” He tries to glare at her, but she’s just too shiny. Too pleasant. Too blonde. He’s wincing instead.

“Oh, that’s festive.”

He isn’t sure when he’d turned to fully face her. His elbow leans against the bartop, supporting his weight as he stares at her. “And what do you suggest?”

“Mulled wine?” she muses. “Wassail?” She wrinkles her nose. It’s possible that she doesn’t even know what wassail is. He certainly doesn’t know, or care.

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Hot buttered rum, perhaps. Eggnog.”

“Right,” she agrees cheerfully. “Now you’re gettin’ it. Oi,” and here she turns to the bartender who already seems aware of her, moving toward the taps. She really must be a fixture if she doesn’t even have to catch his attention and he anticipates her order. “Two ciders, please.”

He can’t help but scoff at that. ��Wonderful. I fucking hate cider.”

“I get the feeling—thanks, Tom—you hate most things,” she says, passing Tucker one of the glasses. “But it’s all I can afford, so cheers.” She lifts her glass, and he reciprocates, though he can’t think why. He drinks, and it’s as terrible as he’d expected. But she seems happy with her selection, taking a long sip before pulling her knees up and balancing, cross-legged, on the barstool. The long laces of her plimsolls hang over the edge, and she looks strangely young, though she can’t be that young if she’s lurking in a dive like this.

She tilts her head, examining him. “Why don’t you tell me somethin’ you do like.”

“Whiskey.” Like that isn’t obvious.

“Right, what else?”

“Solitude.”

“God, you’re unbearable. No wonder you’re alone at Christmas.” She says it so matter-of-factly that it barely feels insulting. It barely even stings. Because she doesn’t know he’s Malcolm Tucker, and that that’s why he’s alone at Christmas. She just sees a man alone at a bar, and there’s something… comforting in the anonymity. Something gratifying, even, in the interest he apparently garners—just by being here alone on Christmas Eve. 

Before he can dwell on the softening effect of her sunburst smile, the way the smokey bar seems to fuzz everything around her into a dim, abstract haze, she’s unfolding, scooting one stool over, and refolding, elbows propped on her knees—leaning, to get closer to him, if he can believe it.

He can’t quite.

“So, you’re a miserable bastard, I’m a nosey cunt; you’re Presbyterian, I’m agnostic; you like drinkin’ whiskey, and I just like drinkin’. I think,” she hums, stopping to take a sip of her cider, “this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re delusional.”

“Possibly,” she agrees, and her tongue pokes out through her teeth as she grins at him, the imp. “But you’re lonely, and I’m persistent.”

“Clingy, more like.”

“Loyal.”

“So are dogs,” he shoots back. “And dogs don’t harass old men at bars, which means they have more good sense than you. I could get one.”

Her eyes narrow for a fraction of a second. “You’re not old.”

She’s amazingly gifted at missing the point.

He wishes he were enjoying himself less.

“Haggard, then.”

“I’ll give you that. You need a good night’s sleep, and possibly a shag. Not that I’m offerin’, ‘course,” she continues, her grin borderline incandescent. “I don’t sleep with my friends.”

He sighs. “Jesus Christ, woman. You’re exhausting.”

“Good,” she nods, and the cider shines on her lips as she drinks from her pint glass. “Maybe you’ll get some rest, then.” When she smiles again, it’s already familiar, and he realizes that he doesn’t even know this woman’s name, or anything about her, really. Just that she carries paracetamol and drinks the worst cider he’s ever tasted. Just that she wears white plimsolls and when she smiles, it moves slowly over her face, transforming it, and her tongue darts out at the corner, as if she can’t contain her amusement. She laughs like she means it. She looks good in pink, both her jumper and her blush.

He knows an awful lot, really.

Or at least enough.

“What’s your name?” The question he’d just been thinking comes out of nowhere, spoken over the rim of her glass.

He pauses before answering. “Tucker.”

“First or last? Or,” she stops herself, a smug smile on her lips, “I bet you’re not gonna tell me. Alright, Tucker.” She’s trying the name out, that much is clear. She rolls it around on her tongue, tasting it with more attentiveness than she’d given the cider. “Rhymes with ‘fucker,’ so it suits you.” She pauses for another moment, and he sort of wishes she’d keep talking forever. Her babble is… strangely relaxing. “Not very Scottish, though. Bet your first name makes up for it. Something unpronounceable, with loads of a’s and accent marks.” He wonders how it’s possible that she doesn’t know, hasn’t seen him on the telly or in the papers. These kids and their phones, he thinks. When no response seems to be forthcoming, the girl shrugs. “Tucker it is, then.”

He quite likes the way she says it—sort of dropping any semblance of an ‘r’ at the end, finishing on an upswing. Tuck-ah. Surprised pleasure is inherent in the sound of it.

“I suppose you mean for me to ask your name.” He tries not to frame it like a question, and he almost succeeds.

“Only if you want to know it.”

She seems aware of the impasse she’s placed them at. Because he won’t give her the satisfaction. He won’t ask. Instead, he takes another determined swallow of his cider. “This is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to drink,” he pronounces, “and up ‘til recently, I made a career out of piss-guzzling.”

“That sounds terrible,” she comments, but only after polishing off the last of her cider.

He’s surprised to find that she sounds genuinely amused—something he hasn’t heard much in his life. Lackeys laughing too hard at cruel jokes just weren’t the same. But she has no reason to laugh at him, or talk to him at all. She’s just… doing it.

“Wasn’t so bad,” he shrugs. “Got my stomach pumped once a week.”

“Good for you, prioritizin’ your health.” When she reaches over to steal his pint glass, her thumb brushes over his, and it’s warm. “Explains the whiskey, though.”

“I’m sanitizing my insides, yeah.”

“Picklin’, more like.”

He shrugs again, lips twitching. “Same thing.”

Silence falls between them for a brief moment, before he notices that the music had switched at some point, along with the lights in the bar. Most of the light comes in from the streetlamps outside the windows, where—to Tucker’s absolute horror—snow is lightly falling, a White Christmas straight out of nightmare. Overhead, he hears the distinctive sound of jingling sodding bells.

It is undeniably his cue to leave.

But he eyes the girl who spend the last hour sitting so near him, who is confidently sipping the drink she’d bought him and waiting in the comfortable quiet.

“Alright,” he caves. “Tell me your name. I know you’re dying to.”

It’s weak, but it’s the best he can do. And she seems content to give him this small dignity.

“Rose,” she offers, along with another tongue-touched smile. “Rose Tyler.” She says her name much the same way she says his—bright, almost stunningly cheerful.

He nods. She’s a Rose, with her pink cheeks and sweater and tongue. Of course she is.

“Well, Rose Tyler,” he begins, heaving up off his barstool. He still feels heavy, because it’s Christmas and he’s still a sad old fucker, but his feet are steady beneath him. He looks down at her, where she’s set to finishing his drink. “I won’t thank you for that god-awful cider.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Of course not. You buy, then—next time.”

Next time, he thinks, feeling something like cheer for the first time in a long time. He won’t call it Christmas cheer, though it has that same… warm, rosey quality. Christ, he groans, stopping the cozy thoughts before they can root and spread.

Instead, he manages a curt nod. “Next time.” He slides on his coat and, as he pushes open the door to the outside world, a cold gust of wind sweeps in. It’s pleasant against his alcohol-heated cheeks, but it won’t last for long. His shoulders droop. Soon the cold will turn bitter again.

“Happy Christmas, Tucker.”

He looks over his shoulder, mouth twitching in the tiniest—and the most sincere—of smiles. Happy Christmas, Rose Tyler.

He says nothing.

The walk home isn’t as cold as he thought.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

wiptober, day 1

an update to the eight x rose writer au!

an update to the tucker x rose au!

[gingerteaonthetardis]

If you still want prompts, 25 for Tucker and Rose. (or Fremione. Actually I'm not picky about pairing XD, so you know, whoever. Have fun.)

hey, thinky, remember that tuckerrose idea we had?

-

𝟸𝟻. 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎

She knows he hates these things.

The ballroom, large as it is, can’t contain the conflicting scents of perfume and cologne, of rich dishes and strong coffee. And underneath it all, the sour tension—people making deals over flutes of champagne, making enemies atop unused dance floor. It all reeks with stress and prevarication, and she can see—just from the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head—that it’s driving him spare.

She’d promised to be on her best behaviour tonight. But the room is teeming with promises, poised to break. And breaking this one—well, it’s for the greater good.

Keeping Malcolm Tucker happy is in everybody’s best interest.

Excusing herself from her own dull conversation, Rose threads her way through the crush on careful footsteps. Every shiny, patent leather shoe is a threat to the hem of her gown, and to her balance. 

She doesn’t recognise the people he’s with—never a good sign. Probably some fat cats who cornered him in the hopes of deregulating their particular slice of the global economic pie. They’re all the same.

Rose slides up beside him, looping her arm through his.

He looks down at her in surprise, but there’s a pleased twinkle there. He turns back to the gathered men with a slightly-softened countenance. “Gentlemen—my wife, Rose.” 

She tries not to blush at the word—wife—it’s still so new, and it still makes her heart do odd flips in her chest.

Instead, she offers an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, but I need to steal my husband away for a moment.” And then she’s tugging—hoping he won’t make her explain—and they break free of the circle with barely a murmur. She walks purposefully toward the exit, hoping the look on her face will deter potential hangers-on from approaching.

Mercifully, they escape the ballroom.

Noting her brisk pace, Malcolm lowers his head, whispering, “Where are we going?”

“No idea,” she admits—right in time to spy a door off to the side of the hotel lobby, labeled Cloakroom.

She grins to herself. It’ll do.

With barely a glance at the empty lobby, she tugs the door open and pushes him through.

Inside, the air is close with the scent of damp wool and fur. 

“You’re a fucking menace, you know.” Malcolm’s got a look of amusement on his face, belying the lingering tension in his shoulders. It’s that she wants to get to—to ease it out of him, bringing back the man she knows: the one who licks Nutella off of spoons and holds her hand during films.

It’s for the good of everybody, but it’s also—a little bit—for her.

So, she kisses him. Once, twice, brushing over his jaw, her hands resting on his shoulders. She nips him with her teeth—just a playful bite, but he exhales sharply through his nose, and she feels the strain easing. Leaving.

“It’s why you love me,” she tells him.

When his hands fly to her hips, warming her through thin silk, she knows it to be true.

-

physical affection prompts.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

my tucker and rose bullshit continues.