Jess. 22. Texan.

Stumbling through adulthood and willing to talk to anyone about anything. I do a lot of shipping and a lot of writing.

 Angels with a Shotgun

fabulous new icon courtesy of valedecems!

and so they dance

word on the street is if i write this david/billie fic, i’ll get a chris/billie fic as compensation so here we go (special reference for you and jamie!)

david/billie, possessive/jealous!david oops this got more fluffy than possessive sorry

They act and kiss and fuck. Sometimes in that order sometimes not (don’t ask the make-up crew about how many times they’ve reapplied Billie’s lipstick or how many times they’ve re-styled his hair in-between long takes).

Sometimes he comes over for a spontaneous movie night and they order seven different kinds of take away because she wants egg rolls and yellow curry and he wants pizza and kabobs and there’s enough leftovers to last both of them another movie night. 

They watch Blue Lagoon and they laugh at Brooke Shields’ eyebrows and he admits to having more than one poster of her in his bedroom growing up. She eyes him up and down and shakes her head, “Never pegged you for a Shields man.”

He tells her that they should reenact some of those waterfall scenes and he’ll grab a loin cloth made of leaves and they can call it a day.

She throws popcorn at him.

They play Scrabble, they go to quiet coffeeshops and listen to open mic night while they sip coffee and tea, and they end up pressed against each other—thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder—in squishy armchairs.

Afterwards they kiss, tentative, shy nips that tease at the other’s bottom lip and tongues stay firmly in their respective mouths (they still are shy about public kisses, too afraid of the press and the effect on the show. They value their privacy too much but damn sometimes it’s hard to keep their hands off one another). 

They save the passion for the cab ride home where his hands start with nonsensical drawings on her thigh then creep up and under her skirt, skimming the inside of her thigh and fingers brushing the outside of her panties.

Her hands clutch at his knee and she turns herself and spreads her thighs, breathing heavily, his mouth working at the underside of her jaw and at the pulse in her neck, thumping in time to her racing heart.

They stumble into her flat and knock over a few books and knick knacks in their haste to get to the bedroom (they don’t quite make it to the bed the first time, but that’s what round two is for). 

They wake up and cook breakfast together—potatoes and eggs and fruit and toast and coffee and, “David, you can’t eat cold kabobs for breakfast!”

He grins through his mouthful of lamb and veggies and she grimaces when he leans over for a sloppy kiss. She squeals and pushes him away, flinging the crusts of her toast at him.

On set, they are absolute professionals.


They giggle like school children and make lewd jokes about handcuffs and dungeons (okay, David makes lewd jokes about handcuffs and dungeons). They play silly hand clapping games that are nonsensical and she laughs when he loses the beat.

He glares and taps her nose, “Not all of us are musically inclined, Ms. Something-Deep-Inside.”

That shuts her up.

They sometimes pull out their camcorders and mock interview the cast and crew, asking serious questions about production that the fans will be interested in and silly questions like, “What would happen if you trapped an Ood and a Dalek in the same room together?”

They fall asleep in their chairs or trailers or curled up together against the TARDIS console in between takes, her head on his shoulder and his chin on the crown of her head, their hands loosely entwined. 

They do just about everything together—acting, fucking, kissing, the whole nine yards.

The one thing, the absolute one thing, they never do is dance. Not once.

Not between takes, not on set, not at home, not swaying to the gentle strums of their favorite guitarist at the coffeeshop down the end of the street.

They just don’t dance.

He’d playfully offered his hand to give her spin around the room and she’d given him a curt smile and said something about the loo.

He tries not to be jealous, tries not to think about the fact that she danced with Eccleston in between almost every take. He definitely doesn’t think about her laughing in his arms, burying her head in the crook of his neck, or soft secrets whispered to one another in the one-two-tree-four beat of their dance.

And yet, it’s all he can think about.

He starts to bring around his iPod and portable speakers with him on set, playing various songs—fast, slow, upbeat, slow, romantic, anything—trying to tempt her into dance. 

She only eyes his own attempts at dancing with humor and shrugs off his offered hand.

The green-eyed monster in his chest rumbles and grumbles and flares to life until they’re at home watching Return to Blue Lagoon (“There’s no point, David, it’s rubbish, absolute rubbish!” “But, Billie, it’s Milla Jovivch! That’s almost as good as Brooke Shields! Oi! Stop it with the popcorn throwing, eh?”). 

The credits roll and there’s some soft music playing that’s at once evocative and suggestive and he decides that now is the perfect time to address the situation. 

He wants to feel her body pressed to his, his arms wrapped around her waist, her breaths soft on his neck, content to be held while they dance around the living room. 

He stands up and offers her his hand, one more time.

"Up for a quick dance, Piper?"

Again, she smiles at him indulgently and gets up from the couch and stretches. “Maybe another time. I think I’ll turn in early tonight, sweetheart. You coming to bed?”

He frowns and steps in front of her.

"No. I want to dance."

He extends his hand out to her again, more insistent.

"I don’t want to dance, Dave. Just—just not tonight, okay?"

"Not tonight, not yesterday, not tomorrow, not ever is what you mean, right?"

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to fight. We have a long set call tomorrow. C’mon, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

He crosses his arms. “No. Just tell me why you won’t dance with me. Is it my feet? I promise, your toes are safe with me.” He smiles at her and she laughs, shaking her head.

"No, it’s not that. I just—I…It’s stupid and you’ll be mad."

He shuffles towards her and takes her hand, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I promise, I won’t be mad but I feel like you don’t want to share this with me. I feel like—”

He hesitates and looks at her. She’s watching him with wide, knowing eyes and he takes a deep breath.

"I feel like you’re still waiting for Chris to come back and dance with you."

He lets it hang in the air and all he hears is a sharp inhale from her. She tightens her hold on his hand and nods slowly.

It stings and he didn’t expect it to. His chest feels too tight for his heart that’s beating out of his chest and his stomach feels full and empty at once.

Of course she’s waiting for him, biding her time with the replacement. He feels sick and it must show on his face because she’s pressing herself to him and running her fingers through his hair.

"Hey, no, it’s not like that with him. Let me just explain, okay? When Chris left, it was a shock. I thought he was going to stay—"

"—stay with you, you mean."

She glares at his interruption and slaps his chest. “Hush. Let me explain.”

He nods and he hates himself for feeling this way. She continues.

"We danced between takes all the time. He said it calmed him down and it was one of the only times he was open with me. Just us and dancing, you know? And I suppose I had a bit of a crush on him. I was young and he was older and more experienced and he was so intense…"

A little whine from David had her hurrying up past Chris’ attributes.

"Anyway, I just really enjoyed dancing with him. It made me feel special. Like he thought I was special. Then when he left it was unexpected and he never danced with me on our last take and, it’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but part of me doesn’t want to dance until he comes back and finishes what he started.”

She looks up at him through watery eyes. “I-is that alright? I mean, are we alright?”

He can’t help it, she looks so small in his arms and he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Yeah, sweetheart, we’re okay. When you’re ready to dance, I’ll be here, okay?"

She nods against his chest and slips her arms around his waist and raises herself up on tiptoes so her mouth is close to his ear. Her hands drift down and slip into the back pocket of his jeans, squeezing.

He yelps and laughs. She whispers into his ear, “If it makes you feel any better, I never did this with Chris.” She bites down on the fleshy part of his ear and nuzzles her nose into the patch of skin below his ear.

He tugs her impossibly closer to him and mouths along her jawline and nips at her lips. 

"Yeah, as long as you dance with me, like this, I’m alright for now.”

And so they dance.

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