Gift for thette
To: 
thette
From:wojelah
Title: Impetus
Pairing: Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: When the water hit the walls, Rose remembers thinking she felt the city shudder. She remembers the water rising, remembers moving from shelter to shelter. She remembers watching Jack and the Doctor leave one last time, looking for one last location. She remembers waiting for them to come back, and swearing she'd never do it again.
Notes: This would not have happened withouttrobadora, to whom infinite thanks.
Word Count: 2,826
---
Rose Tyler is tired and sore and was, until a very hot shower about twenty minutes ago, muddy in entirely implausible locations. If she stops to think about it, there's probably a few other complaints she'd like to add to that list, but she doesn't want to deal with those right now, so she's not. She has, however, an excellent excuse for avoidance: it is, after all, very difficult to pay attention to much of anything apart from the extremely pertinent fact of Jack Harkness, naked, in front of her. It is a very attractive fact.
Rose knows she's staring. She's human, after all. And the thing about Jack is that he's just as good-looking as he thinks he is, not that she ever needs to tell him so. But she's caught him by surprise, stretched out on a bed that could fit all of London, and for the space of a few heartbeats, she's just looking at Jack. Unadorned, unadulterated Jack, without a mask, still and quiet, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing deeply. There's a bruise darkening one cheek, scrapes along his arms and legs, a weal left over from the dermal regenerator stretching down his right calf.
She wants to touch him - wants to make sure, again, that they're just superficial scratches, that the worst of them are gone entirely. She wants to hold on - and frankly, scratches or no, she wants. She defies anyone not to. But he doesn't know she's here, and the force of that thought makes her pause. This might be Jack, but she's still intruding. It's just her luck that when she tries to back out of the doorway, she bumps against a bookshelf and sends something clattering to the floor.
Jack moves so fast she barely sees it, rolling up and off the bed and into a ready stance in one fluid motion. She's caught, frozen, her heart suddenly in her throat. Even when Jack relaxes and sits back on the bed with a thump, she can't manage to move. He's still watching her - and he's still only Jack.
"Rose," he says quietly, and reaches out a hand, palm up.
She takes a few steps into the room in response to the unspoken invitation, and then her brain catches up and brings her to a halt. "Jack. Um." She bites her lip and winces; she'd forgotten about the swelling. "Sorry - I - " He's watching her so carefully; the expression on his face is hard to read, but it's raising butterflies in her stomach. It's pleasant for a moment, and then it's overwhelming. Too much, she thinks. Too much for one day.
"I was looking for my room," she finishes, the words tumbling out in a rush, and turns blindly, heading for the door.
Behind her, Jack says her name, and then she runs smack into a wall of muscle and leather and soft, green wool. The Doctor catches her by the elbows before she can go arse-over-teakettle. She clutches at him for a moment, then gets a grip and manages to stand on her own two feet, backing up enough to meet his stare. She doesn't really want to let go, but she's not sure she's able to admit to that just now.
When she looks up, the Doctor's eyes are so very, very blue.
---
Mostly, she remembers the storm.
She remembers celebrating - the unfeigned pleasure on Jack's face, the grin on the Doctor's as he'd congratulated them all on a job well done. This trip was a reward, a break, a moment of quiet before they went running for their lives one more time. The sunset had been brilliant, purples and roses and gold, amazing even for T'kilm. They'd sat on the city wall, facing the sun, the sea at their backs, and no one had noticed the wind growing colder.
She remembers realizing that twilight was falling far too fast - remembers turning to see that the storm had been minutes away, remembers thinking that the TARDIS was on the other side of the city. By the time they'd seen the wave of water running ahead of the wind, they'd been lucky to get to higher ground.
When the water hit the walls, Rose remembers thinking she felt the city shudder. She remembers the water rising, remembers moving from shelter to shelter. She remembers watching Jack and the Doctor leave one last time, looking for one last location.
She remembers waiting for them to come back, and swearing she'd never do it again.
---
Jack can't quite manage to breathe. Fifteen minutes before, he'd stumbled out of the shower and into this entirely fantastic and entirely unfamiliar room. Since he was exhausted and aching and not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth, he'd patted the TARDIS affectionately and taken full advantage of the bed's acreage.
Funny thing, though - despite best efforts, he hasn't managed to settle into sleep. He's just sort of... coasting, waiting for reality to catch up with mind and body and shut them both down.
If Rose hadn't backed into the bookshelf, he'd never have known she was there.
As it is, old reflexes die hard. He knows he's safe here - more, he knows he's secure. That there's a place here for him, even if he doesn't know exactly what it is yet. The Doctor's made that much clear, a point of pride for Jack. Earning that place hadn't been easy, and Jack's been used to easy for quite some time. But he doesn't quite trust his luck, not yet, and he's half-afraid he's just scared the life out of Rose Tyler, jumping off the bed like that.
Jack's good at reading people, though - stock in trade - and it doesn't take more than a moment to realize that Rose's eyes are wide and her pulse racing for a very different, if very flattering, set of reasons. He's never understood the twenty-first century's taboos on nudity. He's comfortable in his skin and nearly always has been. Still, it's rude to impose your own social mores on your friends, so he's tried to respect Rose's boundaries. The Doctor... doesn't seem to mind. Of course, he doesn't seem to care one way or the other, which takes some of the fun out of the game.
All of this means that now, with Rose staring at him from across the door, the easy, normal thing to do would be to turn this into a joke. Get her to laugh with him, defuse the tension, let her walk out the door with her feathers mostly unruffled.
He really doesn't want her to walk out that door.
It might be the realization. It might be the last forty-eight hours. It might just be that the analgesic's wearing off. But the adrenaline's gone as fast as it arrived and he's lucky the bed's there to catch him as his knees wobble.
He doesn't know what impulse makes him reach out, which is actually a complete lie. It's Rose, warm and safe and there, and he'd like a shoulder to lean on. For the space of a breath, she wavers, and he hopes. When she turns away, he can't help calling after her.
The Doctor steps into the doorway just in time.
Jack would laugh at the pair of them, at Rose's confusion and the Doctor's surprise, at the way she practically rebounds off his chest, but something in the room isn't lending itself to funny. Something about the way she's holding herself just a little too carefully, about the slightly dangerous look in the Doctor's eyes - something about it is just too fragile for laughter.
It's hardly unusual, between the two of them, the Doctor and Rose. They practically vibrate in sync. But it's never been quite this tangible before. Jack's torn between wanting to bang their heads together and wishing desperately he could be part of it.
He stands up from the bed. The movement catches their attention, and suddenly the Doctor and Rose are both focused on him, entirely and intently, and he has to catch his breath at what he sees.
Occasionally, Jack realizes, he is a complete idiot. Because on their faces is everything he wants and didn't think he could have, and he has no idea how to reach out and take it without it all shattering to pieces.
---
He still doesn't remember how he got the cut along his leg.
He remembers turning around, laughing in the last of the sunset; remembers seeing the storm, roiling and thick and sickly black. He remembers the growing roar of wind and water as they'd run up and up and uphill, away from the port and the sea, shouting the alarm as they went.
He remembers an older man flagging them down, ushering them into a safety shelter - remembers the hushed conversations and the crying of a child in an over-full room. He remembers when the water started to creep in under the door.
He remembers watching Rose, watching the Doctor. He remembers watching the room full of people and wondering what had happened, that he'd head back out into the storm for strangers.
He remembers Rose's hug, remembers the strength of the Doctor next to him, and knows he's answered that question.
---
He should have checked.
All of space and time at his disposal, and he'd forgotten to check the bloody weather report. He promises he won't forget again, and knows that one day he will, because time passes and he is terrifyingly imperfect. If he needs the evidence, all he has to do is look at Rose's face, or Jack's leg, or his own hands.
It's absurd, he knows. Everything is fine. This is hardly the worst they've faced - true even if the sample size is limited to the time since Jack's been aboard, ridiculously short and yet hard to remember there was a time he hadn't been there. It's hardly the worst Rose has seen since he asked her twice, something he's never done before and never, never regretted. It's absurd, but it doesn't seem to matter.
He'd given up on waiting, finally, and gone to find them. Not his normal approach, he knows, but he can't seem to sit still. T'kilm caught him off-guard, moved too fast for proper thought, too fast to do anything but react as fast as possible.
Jack and Rose hadn't flinched.
He hasn't had someone he could trust like that since - since before the War. It's a tricky sort of relief, easily - far too easily - pulled out from under him. He'd learned not to trust it, when the fighting started. He's not sure he dares to trust it now, but for some reason he's still heading down the hallway toward their rooms.
The Doctor only means to check in, to make sure they hadn't missed anything in the medical bay that needs more attention than a first-aid kit can provide. But when their voices filter out through an unfamiliar doorway, he walks in expecting a far different conversation than he finds.
He envies them, usually - envies the ease with which they banter, the way Rose can surprise Jack into a laugh, the way Jack can tease her into a blush without fear of treading a step too far. But now the air is tense, practically twanging with an undercurrent the Doctor isn't quite sure he's reading correctly. It's utterly clear when Rose walks into him that she's nearly vibrating in place; the strain in Jack's outstretched hand would be evident to a blind man.
It takes everything he has not to follow after Rose when she backs away from him, which should be its own sort of warning bell. Then Jack stands, and the look on his face is one the Doctor knows deep down, like the ringing of a bell, and suddenly the Doctor's facing the very line he'd never dared to cross. Never wanted to, and now the opposite impulse grabs him so hard he doesn't dare move.
Better to turn and leave, to let them work this out between them. Better to attack this when he has a handle on himself, on the fierce thud of protection and need and trust that has stolen all rational thought. Better to go, and let normality reassert itself tomorrow.
He takes a half-step back, away from the questions and the hope and the trust writ large on their faces. That's when the TARDIS slides the door shut behind him and not even the sonic screwdriver can coax it open.
---
He remembers everything.
He remembers the feel of the rope on his hands, wet and harsh and uncooperative, as they ran lines from building to building, guiding people up and away, giving them something to cling to against the storm and the water.
He remembers Rose's white face, remembers the gust of wind that slammed her against the side of a building, remembers ordering her up the hill and indoors. He remembers finding her after, quiet and determined, in the thick of the chaos, taking on whatever task needed to be done.
He remembers the set of Jack's shoulders, hunched against the wind; remembers feeling him stumble; remembers the deep pink of the water that puddled around his feet after that last relocation. He remembers tying the bandage, remembers Jack lumbering to his feet and back into the crowd.
The Doctor remembers finding them still later, remembers the exhaustion on their faces as they settled into sleep.
He remembers watching them through the night, listening to the wind howl, waiting for morning.
---
Rose really can't help herself, in the end. She's just wound too tightly for anything else to happen.
The door slides shut behind the Doctor and for a moment, all anyone does is stare in disbelief. Then the Doctor turns to the door and mutters something that the TARDIS won't translate, and Rose has to smother a grin. When pressing, stroking, and thumping the access panel fails to yield any progress, the Doctor's tone grows far more dire. Jack, Rose notices, has sat back down on the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees, one hand covering his mouth.
On the Doctor's ninth or tenth attempt to sonic the door open that there's a shower of sparks and a noise that sounds a lot like someone blowing a raspberry, and the Doctor turns around with smoke rising from his jumper and a look on his face of absolute, utter disgruntlement.
She really can't help it. She really does try, clamping a hand over her mouth two seconds too late.
The laugh that bubbles up comes out as a cross between a yelp and a yip, and it's all it takes. Jack snorts, a muscle in his cheek twitching suspiciously. The Doctor glares at them both, then jumps as another small spray of sparks scatters over his shoulder.
She really can't help it. The laughter swells in her chest, a little strained and a little too loud, but it's a relief, a release, and she can't hold back any longer. She chortles, wheezing for breath, stumbling over to the bed to collapse against Jack, who sags against her and laughs himself silly. The Doctor watches them, entirely affronted, until, as she watches, the utter ridiculousness of the situation washes over him and he throws his head back and laughs great belly laughs, setting them all off again.
It hits them in waves, and it's not till her sides are aching that something changes, and suddenly the noise she makes is more like a hiccup as all her raw edges reappear at once. She's wavering on the knife's edge separating hilarity from hysterics, caught off-guard and terrified, and she clutches at Jack's shoulder, fists her other hand in the edge of the bed.
In a heartbeat, she's surrounded, two pairs of arms holding her and each other close, pulling her in and holding them all together. She reaches for both of them, unable and unwilling to stop herself. When she realizes they're all shivering with the same release of tension, she stops fighting it all together and just lets herself cling.
Something's changed here, she knows, as they maneuver themselves into a heap in the middle of the bed, kicking off shoes and trousers until they're comfortable (or, in Jack's case, complaining about zippers and buttons and scratchy fabrics until they've been removed). Something irrevocable and huge, and if she thinks about it tonight, she'll panic, so she doesn't.
"Bloody ship," the Doctor mutters into her ear. She falls apart again, Jack's shoulder shaking with laughter beneath her, and she tightens her hold on the Doctor's arm around her waist. They don't say much, they just hold on, and as she falls asleep, Rose Tyler doesn't pause to worry about the morning.
thetteFrom:
wojelahTitle: Impetus
Pairing: Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: When the water hit the walls, Rose remembers thinking she felt the city shudder. She remembers the water rising, remembers moving from shelter to shelter. She remembers watching Jack and the Doctor leave one last time, looking for one last location. She remembers waiting for them to come back, and swearing she'd never do it again.
Notes: This would not have happened without
trobadora, to whom infinite thanks.Word Count: 2,826
---
Rose Tyler is tired and sore and was, until a very hot shower about twenty minutes ago, muddy in entirely implausible locations. If she stops to think about it, there's probably a few other complaints she'd like to add to that list, but she doesn't want to deal with those right now, so she's not. She has, however, an excellent excuse for avoidance: it is, after all, very difficult to pay attention to much of anything apart from the extremely pertinent fact of Jack Harkness, naked, in front of her. It is a very attractive fact.
Rose knows she's staring. She's human, after all. And the thing about Jack is that he's just as good-looking as he thinks he is, not that she ever needs to tell him so. But she's caught him by surprise, stretched out on a bed that could fit all of London, and for the space of a few heartbeats, she's just looking at Jack. Unadorned, unadulterated Jack, without a mask, still and quiet, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing deeply. There's a bruise darkening one cheek, scrapes along his arms and legs, a weal left over from the dermal regenerator stretching down his right calf.
She wants to touch him - wants to make sure, again, that they're just superficial scratches, that the worst of them are gone entirely. She wants to hold on - and frankly, scratches or no, she wants. She defies anyone not to. But he doesn't know she's here, and the force of that thought makes her pause. This might be Jack, but she's still intruding. It's just her luck that when she tries to back out of the doorway, she bumps against a bookshelf and sends something clattering to the floor.
Jack moves so fast she barely sees it, rolling up and off the bed and into a ready stance in one fluid motion. She's caught, frozen, her heart suddenly in her throat. Even when Jack relaxes and sits back on the bed with a thump, she can't manage to move. He's still watching her - and he's still only Jack.
"Rose," he says quietly, and reaches out a hand, palm up.
She takes a few steps into the room in response to the unspoken invitation, and then her brain catches up and brings her to a halt. "Jack. Um." She bites her lip and winces; she'd forgotten about the swelling. "Sorry - I - " He's watching her so carefully; the expression on his face is hard to read, but it's raising butterflies in her stomach. It's pleasant for a moment, and then it's overwhelming. Too much, she thinks. Too much for one day.
"I was looking for my room," she finishes, the words tumbling out in a rush, and turns blindly, heading for the door.
Behind her, Jack says her name, and then she runs smack into a wall of muscle and leather and soft, green wool. The Doctor catches her by the elbows before she can go arse-over-teakettle. She clutches at him for a moment, then gets a grip and manages to stand on her own two feet, backing up enough to meet his stare. She doesn't really want to let go, but she's not sure she's able to admit to that just now.
When she looks up, the Doctor's eyes are so very, very blue.
---
Mostly, she remembers the storm.
She remembers celebrating - the unfeigned pleasure on Jack's face, the grin on the Doctor's as he'd congratulated them all on a job well done. This trip was a reward, a break, a moment of quiet before they went running for their lives one more time. The sunset had been brilliant, purples and roses and gold, amazing even for T'kilm. They'd sat on the city wall, facing the sun, the sea at their backs, and no one had noticed the wind growing colder.
She remembers realizing that twilight was falling far too fast - remembers turning to see that the storm had been minutes away, remembers thinking that the TARDIS was on the other side of the city. By the time they'd seen the wave of water running ahead of the wind, they'd been lucky to get to higher ground.
When the water hit the walls, Rose remembers thinking she felt the city shudder. She remembers the water rising, remembers moving from shelter to shelter. She remembers watching Jack and the Doctor leave one last time, looking for one last location.
She remembers waiting for them to come back, and swearing she'd never do it again.
---
Jack can't quite manage to breathe. Fifteen minutes before, he'd stumbled out of the shower and into this entirely fantastic and entirely unfamiliar room. Since he was exhausted and aching and not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth, he'd patted the TARDIS affectionately and taken full advantage of the bed's acreage.
Funny thing, though - despite best efforts, he hasn't managed to settle into sleep. He's just sort of... coasting, waiting for reality to catch up with mind and body and shut them both down.
If Rose hadn't backed into the bookshelf, he'd never have known she was there.
As it is, old reflexes die hard. He knows he's safe here - more, he knows he's secure. That there's a place here for him, even if he doesn't know exactly what it is yet. The Doctor's made that much clear, a point of pride for Jack. Earning that place hadn't been easy, and Jack's been used to easy for quite some time. But he doesn't quite trust his luck, not yet, and he's half-afraid he's just scared the life out of Rose Tyler, jumping off the bed like that.
Jack's good at reading people, though - stock in trade - and it doesn't take more than a moment to realize that Rose's eyes are wide and her pulse racing for a very different, if very flattering, set of reasons. He's never understood the twenty-first century's taboos on nudity. He's comfortable in his skin and nearly always has been. Still, it's rude to impose your own social mores on your friends, so he's tried to respect Rose's boundaries. The Doctor... doesn't seem to mind. Of course, he doesn't seem to care one way or the other, which takes some of the fun out of the game.
All of this means that now, with Rose staring at him from across the door, the easy, normal thing to do would be to turn this into a joke. Get her to laugh with him, defuse the tension, let her walk out the door with her feathers mostly unruffled.
He really doesn't want her to walk out that door.
It might be the realization. It might be the last forty-eight hours. It might just be that the analgesic's wearing off. But the adrenaline's gone as fast as it arrived and he's lucky the bed's there to catch him as his knees wobble.
He doesn't know what impulse makes him reach out, which is actually a complete lie. It's Rose, warm and safe and there, and he'd like a shoulder to lean on. For the space of a breath, she wavers, and he hopes. When she turns away, he can't help calling after her.
The Doctor steps into the doorway just in time.
Jack would laugh at the pair of them, at Rose's confusion and the Doctor's surprise, at the way she practically rebounds off his chest, but something in the room isn't lending itself to funny. Something about the way she's holding herself just a little too carefully, about the slightly dangerous look in the Doctor's eyes - something about it is just too fragile for laughter.
It's hardly unusual, between the two of them, the Doctor and Rose. They practically vibrate in sync. But it's never been quite this tangible before. Jack's torn between wanting to bang their heads together and wishing desperately he could be part of it.
He stands up from the bed. The movement catches their attention, and suddenly the Doctor and Rose are both focused on him, entirely and intently, and he has to catch his breath at what he sees.
Occasionally, Jack realizes, he is a complete idiot. Because on their faces is everything he wants and didn't think he could have, and he has no idea how to reach out and take it without it all shattering to pieces.
---
He still doesn't remember how he got the cut along his leg.
He remembers turning around, laughing in the last of the sunset; remembers seeing the storm, roiling and thick and sickly black. He remembers the growing roar of wind and water as they'd run up and up and uphill, away from the port and the sea, shouting the alarm as they went.
He remembers an older man flagging them down, ushering them into a safety shelter - remembers the hushed conversations and the crying of a child in an over-full room. He remembers when the water started to creep in under the door.
He remembers watching Rose, watching the Doctor. He remembers watching the room full of people and wondering what had happened, that he'd head back out into the storm for strangers.
He remembers Rose's hug, remembers the strength of the Doctor next to him, and knows he's answered that question.
---
He should have checked.
All of space and time at his disposal, and he'd forgotten to check the bloody weather report. He promises he won't forget again, and knows that one day he will, because time passes and he is terrifyingly imperfect. If he needs the evidence, all he has to do is look at Rose's face, or Jack's leg, or his own hands.
It's absurd, he knows. Everything is fine. This is hardly the worst they've faced - true even if the sample size is limited to the time since Jack's been aboard, ridiculously short and yet hard to remember there was a time he hadn't been there. It's hardly the worst Rose has seen since he asked her twice, something he's never done before and never, never regretted. It's absurd, but it doesn't seem to matter.
He'd given up on waiting, finally, and gone to find them. Not his normal approach, he knows, but he can't seem to sit still. T'kilm caught him off-guard, moved too fast for proper thought, too fast to do anything but react as fast as possible.
Jack and Rose hadn't flinched.
He hasn't had someone he could trust like that since - since before the War. It's a tricky sort of relief, easily - far too easily - pulled out from under him. He'd learned not to trust it, when the fighting started. He's not sure he dares to trust it now, but for some reason he's still heading down the hallway toward their rooms.
The Doctor only means to check in, to make sure they hadn't missed anything in the medical bay that needs more attention than a first-aid kit can provide. But when their voices filter out through an unfamiliar doorway, he walks in expecting a far different conversation than he finds.
He envies them, usually - envies the ease with which they banter, the way Rose can surprise Jack into a laugh, the way Jack can tease her into a blush without fear of treading a step too far. But now the air is tense, practically twanging with an undercurrent the Doctor isn't quite sure he's reading correctly. It's utterly clear when Rose walks into him that she's nearly vibrating in place; the strain in Jack's outstretched hand would be evident to a blind man.
It takes everything he has not to follow after Rose when she backs away from him, which should be its own sort of warning bell. Then Jack stands, and the look on his face is one the Doctor knows deep down, like the ringing of a bell, and suddenly the Doctor's facing the very line he'd never dared to cross. Never wanted to, and now the opposite impulse grabs him so hard he doesn't dare move.
Better to turn and leave, to let them work this out between them. Better to attack this when he has a handle on himself, on the fierce thud of protection and need and trust that has stolen all rational thought. Better to go, and let normality reassert itself tomorrow.
He takes a half-step back, away from the questions and the hope and the trust writ large on their faces. That's when the TARDIS slides the door shut behind him and not even the sonic screwdriver can coax it open.
---
He remembers everything.
He remembers the feel of the rope on his hands, wet and harsh and uncooperative, as they ran lines from building to building, guiding people up and away, giving them something to cling to against the storm and the water.
He remembers Rose's white face, remembers the gust of wind that slammed her against the side of a building, remembers ordering her up the hill and indoors. He remembers finding her after, quiet and determined, in the thick of the chaos, taking on whatever task needed to be done.
He remembers the set of Jack's shoulders, hunched against the wind; remembers feeling him stumble; remembers the deep pink of the water that puddled around his feet after that last relocation. He remembers tying the bandage, remembers Jack lumbering to his feet and back into the crowd.
The Doctor remembers finding them still later, remembers the exhaustion on their faces as they settled into sleep.
He remembers watching them through the night, listening to the wind howl, waiting for morning.
---
Rose really can't help herself, in the end. She's just wound too tightly for anything else to happen.
The door slides shut behind the Doctor and for a moment, all anyone does is stare in disbelief. Then the Doctor turns to the door and mutters something that the TARDIS won't translate, and Rose has to smother a grin. When pressing, stroking, and thumping the access panel fails to yield any progress, the Doctor's tone grows far more dire. Jack, Rose notices, has sat back down on the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees, one hand covering his mouth.
On the Doctor's ninth or tenth attempt to sonic the door open that there's a shower of sparks and a noise that sounds a lot like someone blowing a raspberry, and the Doctor turns around with smoke rising from his jumper and a look on his face of absolute, utter disgruntlement.
She really can't help it. She really does try, clamping a hand over her mouth two seconds too late.
The laugh that bubbles up comes out as a cross between a yelp and a yip, and it's all it takes. Jack snorts, a muscle in his cheek twitching suspiciously. The Doctor glares at them both, then jumps as another small spray of sparks scatters over his shoulder.
She really can't help it. The laughter swells in her chest, a little strained and a little too loud, but it's a relief, a release, and she can't hold back any longer. She chortles, wheezing for breath, stumbling over to the bed to collapse against Jack, who sags against her and laughs himself silly. The Doctor watches them, entirely affronted, until, as she watches, the utter ridiculousness of the situation washes over him and he throws his head back and laughs great belly laughs, setting them all off again.
It hits them in waves, and it's not till her sides are aching that something changes, and suddenly the noise she makes is more like a hiccup as all her raw edges reappear at once. She's wavering on the knife's edge separating hilarity from hysterics, caught off-guard and terrified, and she clutches at Jack's shoulder, fists her other hand in the edge of the bed.
In a heartbeat, she's surrounded, two pairs of arms holding her and each other close, pulling her in and holding them all together. She reaches for both of them, unable and unwilling to stop herself. When she realizes they're all shivering with the same release of tension, she stops fighting it all together and just lets herself cling.
Something's changed here, she knows, as they maneuver themselves into a heap in the middle of the bed, kicking off shoes and trousers until they're comfortable (or, in Jack's case, complaining about zippers and buttons and scratchy fabrics until they've been removed). Something irrevocable and huge, and if she thinks about it tonight, she'll panic, so she doesn't.
"Bloody ship," the Doctor mutters into her ear. She falls apart again, Jack's shoulder shaking with laughter beneath her, and she tightens her hold on the Doctor's arm around her waist. They don't say much, they just hold on, and as she falls asleep, Rose Tyler doesn't pause to worry about the morning.