Work Text:
To some extent Turlough knew this wasn’t fair, that he was being compelled to do this, but even were he not compelled he would want to touch, and to be allowed into the Doctor’s bedroom—
The catboy disease, as the TARDIS manual had described it, was an occasional glitch in TARDIS functionality present mostly on older TARDISes overly fond of their pilots that spread from their Time Lords to others. Beyond turning their telepathic affections literal by giving their Time Lords cat ears and a tail, it was a telepathic disease that affected those around the impacted person to want to pet.
The Doctor, on the other hand, called it a mild telepathic error from overfond TARDISes. Turlough privately thought that catboy disease suited them better.
But the Doctor was currently sat, a little awkwardly, on top of the red silk sheets of his bed, where Turlough never thought he would be permitted. With a pat to the sheets, he invited Turlough to kneel between his legs.
Unbidden, Turlough reached for the Doctor’s soft ears, the same pale gold as his hair. They twitched away from his hand, but the Doctor himself held still, although his expression had fallen into something closer to a scowl than actual pleasure. Still: he was allowing Turlough to do this. He had invited Turlough in. And, Turlough reminded himself, he was not stopping him, which was permission enough.
Again he chased those ears, and found them just as soft as they looked. The Doctor had stopped breathing. The ears were soft, yes, but made of a thin membrane that felt curiously vulnerable, and as he ran his fingers down it the Doctor shivered, but still did not pull away. Turlough brought up a second hand to caress both ears properly, and took a moment to examine the Doctor.
His newfound tail was swishing, a sure sign of distress. His ears were flat against his head, although that didn’t hide them from Turlough’s curious fingers. His jaw was tight, his lips pinched, his eyes closed.
But his ears were so soft.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.
The Doctor’s eyes fluttered open, and Turlough held his gaze.
“Do you?” he said again, and, despite himself, made to pull away.
There: a tiny hitch of breath. Turlough’s hand stilled.
“Doctor?”
“I won’t stop you,” the Doctor said, soft enough that Turlough had to struggle to hear, but permission granted nonetheless.
Turlough plunged his hands into the Doctor’s hair, petting both his ears and his hair as he went, indulging himself but not disregarding the Doctor. Kneeling between his thighs as he was, he could catch every minutia of his expression: the way he closed his eyes, the way his lips parted, and as Turlough pinched the soft flesh of his animal ears between two fingers, the way he winced but did not protest.
The Doctor, Turlough thought, did not like to be vulnerable. These ears of his were so delicate that if Turlough wanted to, he could push his thumb right through them, render his Doctor incoherent with pain. But, Turlough realised, almost at the same time, he did not want to hurt his Doctor. He just wanted to pet him.
And pet him he did. He pet him for long enough that his body protested his position and he ended up more in the Doctor’s lap; long enough that the Doctor’s ears and tail stop twitching; long enough that the Doctor’s chest began to make a low rumbling sound that Turlough would never, on pain of the Doctor’s wrath and denial, describe as purring.