94-100 | Billie Piper
Not a lot of people understand Chris. He’s quiet and reserved and serious, but there’s an underlying twinkle in his eyes, a mirth and humor that few people are privy to. Billie counts herself lucky that she gets to see this side of him every morning when they’re both warm and sleepy, trudging into hair and make-up in sweatpants cradling styrofoam cups of steaming tea.
She’s been harboring a crush on him since the first read through, since his rough hand grabbed hers and completely covered her own smaller one. He’d guided her through her first acting role, answering frantic 3am phone calls and letting his Northern burr roll over her, calming her nerves. And if his legs and bum looked damn good in relaxed jeans and a jumper, that didn’t hurt either.
Billie was pretty sure he was catching on to her tiny (okay, massive) crush. The blushing and stammering and stroking of his leather clad arm on set might be getting out of hand. It was the stroking that was outing her. She couldn’t help it. It started with her thumb and forefinger, rubbing the thick, worn material of his jacket absentmindedly on set. Thumb and forefinger turned into her palm rubbing from his elbow down to the cuff of his jacket and soon she was stroking and touching any part of his jacket she could reach.
When she caught his eye, eyebrow arched and questioning, she blushed and muttered something about being in character and Rose would do it. He only smirked and let his hand wrap around her waist, hand tightening on her hip, also mentioning something about staying in character, as well.
Still, it’s the last day of shooting and she might never see him again and she’s missed the chance to raise up on tip toes, grab him by his ears or his leather lapels and snog him breathless. She’s missed the chance to confess to her crush and to thank him and to ghost her hands over his skin. She’s walking off set, phone and bag in hand, cursing herself when a shout of her name has her turning and he’s there, bag in hand, and smile on his face.
“Got you a little something.” He ducked his head nervously and caught her eye. “Didn’t wanna give it to you with everyone staring.” He thrust the bag at her and she took it, confused. Her heart was racing and she was working up the courage to tell him when she saw what was in the bag.
A shiny leather coat is sitting neatly at the bottom of the bag and she looks up sharply at Chris who is shuffling his feet and smiling shyly. He gestures to the bag, “You know, because I won’t be around for you to fondle anymore.” His smirk is sad and happy and Billie is so overwhelmed at the man before her, all complexities and contradictions; hard and soft, serious and funny, handsome and unusual, strong and soft.
She wants to kiss him. So she does. She surges up on her tip toes, hands and arms twining behind his neck, pulling his body down to her, lips covering his own thinner ones, her open mouth catching his muffled exclamation before they are both sinking into each other—arms and hands and bodies entangled. She pulls away breathless, pressing her forehead to his, savoring the moment.
Thank you for the jacket. Thank you for your support. Thank you for being you. Thank you for loving me, however briefly.
Years later, after David and his pinstripes, she finds a leather jacket in the back of her closet and she shrugs it over a white dress and remembers the man that loved her.