Chapter Text
*
Alien Hand Syndrome, AHS for short.
The first well known case in human history was documented in 1908 by a pre-eminent German neuro-psychiatrist, Kurt Goldstein, who recorded in his medical literature the existence of a right-handed woman who had suffered a stroke affecting her left side. Partially recovered, the woman described her left arm as “seeming to belong to another person” and claimed it performed actions that appeared to occur independent of her will.
People diagnosed with AHS continue to feel normal sensation in the offending limb but lose the sense of agency that accompanies purposeful movement of the hand. The owner has no control over the actions of the alien hand, it possesses the capability of acting autonomously. The hand has, in other words, a will of it’s own.
"I have alien hand syndrome," the Doctor said to his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. He looked down at his right hand, the one innocuously gripping a tube of toothpaste.
"Who are you talking to?" Rose asked, popping her head into the bathroom, curious.
"Myself," said the Doctor, pulling himself together.
"Kay," said Rose, shrugging.
He was pretty certain he hadn’t been lobotomized since his induction into the human race, and he hadn’t hit his head or fallen or accidentally inhaled any poisonous, brain-altering gases since his arrival into this dimension. But there was no other explanation, it had to be Alien Hand Syndrome.
"Um. So, is your conversation almost done? I need to use the loo."
Rose took his silence as a sign he was finished, and wrapped her hands around him to gently usher him out of the room and into the hallway. He was half-dressed, only wearing a t-shirt, almost naked really, and her touch on his bare skin sent tingles down both his arms. His right hand, the alien one - literally, the one that had once belonged to a Time-and Space travelling alien, and figuratively, the one that had recently become an independent rogue - clenched on the doorknob of the closed bathroom door, and turned it-
He slapped it with his other hand, yanked it away like the metal handle was on fire, and smacked himself on the forehead, repeatedly, with it.
*
Behave, he told his hand.
It was a demure skirt, very demure, hit her at the knees, not tight, not sheer, not anything objectionable in the least. Not that any of the above things were objectionable. If Rose wanted a tight and sheer skirt the Doctor would run out to the shops and get her one. Because… because he wanted Rose to have the things she wanted. Highest priority, that. Right at the top of his list.
I get it, he thought, with some sympathy. You’re a repressed hand. You’ve spent a lot of time in a jar, thinking dirty thoughts. It’s been a long time for you - er, us - a few centuries at last count. I understand.
She opened the pre-heated oven and bent to slide the cupcake pan inside. The skirt, as loose and swingy as it was, immediately became the world’s most form-revealing garment, molding to Rose’s bum. It inched higher, showing off the back of her thighs, igniting a yearning in his fingers to touch and stroke and flip the skirt up the rest of the way.
What is wrong with you? He admonished, horrified by the impulse. Nine-hundred years of self-control, gone out the window!
Said alien hand slid itself into his trouser pocket, as if to hide in embarrassment. He sneered at it.
"What?" Rose demanded, sitting down across from him at the kitchen table.
"Huh?"
"You’ve got a funny look on your face," she said. "What were you thinking about?"
"Oh… just some Boolean algebraic mathematical structures. The other day, Toshiko had a question for me regarding an alien artefact she’d found in the archives, never seen anything like it before - well, of course she hadn’t, it was a 31st century mapping of topological space problems, very advanced functions, including one I’ve never run across! Imagine that!"
Satisfied with this incomprehensible answer, Rose glanced at the timer she’d set. “Fifteen minutes. We can make it a quick one,” she said, “What d’you reckon?”
He didn’t know if he could be quick. Well, he could be, probably would be, but he didn’t think he’d want to be. Definitely not. He had to do it properly - undo each of those little buttons on her blouse, one by one and slowly. He wondered if she was wearing a plain bra underneath, or the lacy red one he’d caught a glimpse of the other day when she was putting away the laundry.
"Doctor?"
He blinked, refocusing on Rose’s face. “What?”
"Two hand canasta, Artaris version, circa 3.4/Apple/26. The card game you said you’d teach me to play. The one you said was so complicated it made future monks permanently go into solitary confinement upon learning all the rules, because by the time they did, all the other monks who knew all the rules had died of old age. The one I’m going to kick your butt at."
She said this flirtatiously, leaning forward, both elbows on the table. Her breasts pressed against the flat wooden top, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the smudge of flour on her chest.
"What do you say? While we wait for Tony’s cupcakes to bake."
The Doctor shoved his other hand into his pocket and leaned back, closing one eye. “You’ve never even beat me at Cribbage,” he teased, touching his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Flirting he could do. It was easy, and he loved flirting with Rose.
"You’re on," she said, grinning. She pulled a deck of cards out of nowhere, slapped it onto the table.
He lost, very badly, but he knew it was because he had Alien Hand Syndrome and not because Rose’s foot under the table had brushed his leg, several times, by accident.
*
Babysitting Tony always went more smoothly when cupcakes were involved. Some might argue that adding sugar to the natural hyperactivity of an excitable pre-schooler was a mistake, but those people did not have the instinctive, emotional, intellectual bond with children that the Doctor had with Tony.
"Don’t let him play with his ball indoors," Jackie had instructed, with an undertone of ill-portent. She’d waggled a finger at the Doctor, eyes boring meaningfully into his. "He’s obsessed with footie, has been since Pete took him to a game last week."
"Yes," the Doctor had replied, impatiently. "I know. I went too."
So, rather unfortunately, he couldn’t lay the blame at Jackie’s feet for this one.
Quite a lot of carpeting was ruined and the Doctor was afraid the rows of potted houseplants would never be the same again - but all things considered, it wasn’t a total disaster. Relatively speaking. Mostly. Seventy, sixty-five percent.
Oh well, Pete and Jackie were rich, it wasn’t a problem.
His head was the problem. Someone, specifically a four-year-old someone, had used it as a goal post, without malicious intent, but still.
"You alright?" Rose asked, her voice holding a note of concern that didn’t make him feel any better.
"Feel this bruise," he told her, tilting his head 90 degrees. "It’s the size of an eggplant!"
She bit her lip- he suspected to keep from laughing openly at him- and cooed sympathetically, “Go lie down. I’ll bring you some ice.”
*
He fell asleep, somehow, which he had a disconcerting habit of doing on a fairly regular basis now. Usually about once a day, for several hours at a time. Like a child, he railed against it, fought bedtime, fought the sleepies, and submitted only when his physical body could no longer take it. Apparently, getting socked in the head with an astonishingly hard sphere of plastic was one of those times.
When the Doctor woke, he heard the sound of the shower. Rose was in the bathroom. She was probably naked.
The thought sprung unbidden into his sore, groggy head, likely put there by his dirty-minded hand. He glared at it. A voice in his head pointed out that it was perfectly natural for Rose to be naked in the shower. People didn’t shower with their clothes on, except sometimes in elevators in Hospitals run by cat nuns. That distasteful image was superseded by the memory of Rose (well, strictly speaking, it had been Rose-possessed-by-Cassandra) kissing him thoroughly.
His alien hand briefly wondered what might’ve happened if they hadn’t been separated and had been in the same elevator cabin during the ‘disinfection’. The Doctor rolled his eyes, but his traitorous mind conjured up an alternate course of events for the scenario.
He pictured Rose standing before him. She was mid-sentence when the water hit, turning her rosy mouth into a perfect o of surprise. It soaked her from head to toe, leaving her purple top clinging wetly to her breasts and torso.
The water had been warm, he remembered, but back then his body temperature had been lower. To Rose it might’ve felt at most lukewarm, perhaps even cold. Yes, he thought, closing his eyes - surely it would have been cold to her.
Mentally he adjusted the scene, for the sake of accuracy, making the water cold, making Rose’s nipples clearly visible under her wet clothes.
You didn’t warn me! Imaginary-Rose accused, blinking slowly against the sluicing torrent. Now I’m all wet!
The Doctor grinned down at her. Even if I warned you, you’d still be wet.
You’ve got a coat on. S’not fair!
He took off his coat, slowly, letting it fall to the floor. Now we’re even.
But I’m cold, she complained, pouting. She rubbed her arms with her hands, the movement highlighting her breasts. He was instantly hard, which made him feel like a lecherous old man, which was what he actually was, so there was nothing he could do about it.
You always underdress, he said, feigning a stern voice. Let this be a lesson to you, Rose Tyler.
Rose stepped closer to him and said contritely, I’m sorry, Doctor.
Contrary to her tone, she didn’t look sorry in the least. He tsked. The Doctor would have to teach her a lesson, one she’d remember. He reached into his trouser pocket, hitting a setting on the sonic screwdriver that made the shower even cooler in temperature. The elevator shuddered and groaned to a sudden stop. Lights flickered and dimmed.
Fantasy-Rose gasped and stumbled forwards, pressing herself against his chest. What’s happening, Doctor?
The Doctor put his arms around her, tucking her head beneath his chin. Elevator’s malfunctioning.
Are we trapped in here, Doctor? She bit her lower lip, in that particular way that drove him crazy. It usually happened when she was feeling particularly anxious or when she was aroused. The Doctor always knew the difference, being capable of smelling the pheremones on her. The tight, perky nipples he could feel through the layers of his wet clothing weren’t just from the cold dousing they were receiving.
Don’t worry, he told her, stroking a hand along her spine. She shivered and arched the small of her back into his touch. They’ll figure it out, sooner or later.
What’re we gonna do in the meantime? She was all wide-eyed innocence as she looked up at him through her long, wet lashes. Her hands moved up his wet shirt to toy with the knot of his tie, the heat from the pad of her fingers seeming to sear right through the fabric of his shirt. He slid his hands to her bum, pulling her hips flush with his, making sure she felt exactly what she was doing to him.
The gasp that came from her drove another pang of lust through him. The Doctor bent his head and swallowed the end of the sound, covering that sweet mouth with his own and licking deep inside. She moaned, yanking on his tie to pull him even closer, molding herself to him. He shoved his leg between hers, a bit roughly, but she liked it and rolled her hips, bringing that hot little place between her thighs into contact with his hard-on.
He broke the kiss, bit her lower lip, lightly, and nuzzled his way along her jaw, down her neck, back up to her ear. Is this what you had in mind? Is that why your shirt is barely buttoned up?
Because it was. Almost halfway undone, just begging for a strong, clever hand to tear apart the rest.
No, she said breathlessly, It was an accident. I don’t know how it happened, I swear.
Liar liar pants on fire, he said, grinding his erection against her body. He spun them both around, pushing her against the elevator wall, away from the punishing spray of the disinfectant, and pressed his forehead to hers. They stared at one another, hearts racing.
Take them off me. Her lips were red and bruised from his kisses. They’re soaked.
He shoved his hand down her waistband and inside her knickers, slid his fingers across her slick entrance. Oh yes. We’d better get you out of these wet clothes.
Her slacks came off, followed by her knickers. Rose’s warm little hand unzipped his trousers, curled around his cock, and pumped. The pleasure of her touch was unbelievable, sending rockets of sensation through his nervous system and breaking all of his self-restraint.
The Doctor lifted her, positioned himself as she wrapped her legs around him, and thrust home. She was so hot and tight and wet, so perfect, he could fuck her forever, love her forever, Rose, his Rose, so gorgeous, so fucking amazing, clenching around his cock like a vise-
A loud, irritating ring broke through, interrupting his thrusts; the Doctor rolled over, eyes wide, panic seizing his senses. Rose shuffled into the room wearing nothing but a fluffy white robe, her hair wrapped in a towel turban.
"Where’s my bloody mobile gone?" she muttered, tossing clothes and bags and shoes aside in her search for the source of the annoying ring. "Doctor? Have you seen it?"
In a frantic move, the Doctor rolled over again to hide his hard-on and buried his shameful, burning face into the pillow.
*