Work Text:
(One.)
It had been almost too easy, really. Looking back, Rose thinks Donna probably could have said the words out of order, and he still would’ve agreed.
As it happened, she had said them in order, clearly steeled for a fight: “I know how attached you are to that suit and I hope for Rose’s sake you take it off at least occasionally, but it’s a special clothing line, all the money goes to youth at risk, and they think it’ll help sales if you wear one. There’s a design with – what do you call him? Garth Vader? No, that’s not it. Darth.”
He’d had his jacket and shirt off with a speed Rose had previously only seen behind a locked door and he was rifling through the mound of t-shirts Donna had dumped on the table like a kid with a pile of sweets.
The triumphant noise he’d let out when he found it was another thing Rose was only used to hearing behind locked doors.
“I’ll wear it at tonight’s show!” He pulled the shirt over his head, making his hair stand up. “And tomorrow’s! And next week in the studio! Do you think – oh, do you think I could have two? No, ten – I want to buy twenty of these shirts.”
Donna laughed, “Slow down there, Nerd Rock. We’ll make a formal donation, the accountants are already setting it up. This is just something extra.”
But the Doctor wasn’t listening, scrambling to the mirror in the corner of the bus. “Oh, this is brilliant! What do you think, Rose?” and he’d twirled in a circle.
Twirled.
“Lovely,” she’d answered, and tried not to focus on how the sight of his bare forearms seemed practically pornographic.
Three days later Rose finds him in his dressing room, filming himself talking about the shirt with a camera he’d stolen from Adam.
When Adam uploads it online in retaliation, the shirts sell out in minutes and the “Doctor’s Video Diaries” take the internet by storm.
(Two.)
Occasionally the Doctor lets things slip, little revelations about the ways he filled his time before Rose came along, that make her wonder. For instance, when they stop in New York for a concert and a round of publicity, with the American leg of the new tour kicking off within the week, the Doctor declares he’s going to Dean & Deluca.
“Felicity worked there, Rose! Ohh, did you see when she cut her hair? Criminal. And really, Ben? I don’t think so. But it’s Dean & Deluca, Rose!”
“The closest one’s in Rockefeller Center. It’s Christmas, it’s crowded, it’s going to be a madhouse. We should send someone. Wilf can pick up your order,” Rose says.
He looks like she just kicked over his sandcastle. “But we’re so close. And I want to buy a mug, and it’s not the same if I have to pick it from a picture on a camera phone.”
Of course, she can’t let him go by himself. When the Doctor ventures out on his own, sometimes he forgets exactly how noticeable he is and stumbles into a dicey situation with too many overenthusiastic fans. The one time he ended up unintentionally crowd-surfing as he tried to exit a Tesco, he’d told Rose later in a low whisper, “There were so many hands, and let me tell you, most of them weren’t shy.”
“All right, we’ll get breakfast at Dean & Deluca,” Rose says with a resigned sigh, “but you’re wearing a disguise.”
A baseball cap and a hoodie later, they’re in the morning throng at Rockefeller Center, pushing their way into the crowded little café. They make it through coffee and breakfast without incident, but when the Doctor’s standing in front of the enormous shelf of Dean & Deluca branded mugs, it happens.
The woman’s carrying iced coffee, thank goodness, but the way she makes a beeline from picking up her order, bumps right into him and tips the glass directly onto his chest … well.
“I’m so sorry!” she says, talking too fast, but she’s looking at his face instead of at the mess she’s made all over his sweatshirt. “It’s you! Oh my goddddd, it’s you!”
He forces his grimace into a smile — the very picture of British manners — and glances at Rose, who stays seated at the table, because at this point stepping in is only going to attract more attention. They always do, when they’re in public together.
“Not to worry, just a little spill!” Which is a blatant lie, the stain covers his entire front, from chin to trousers. He brushes the mess with his bare hands.
“No, no, please, let me!” And before Rose can get to her feet, the woman empties the contents of the nearest napkin box, pushes open his already unzipped hoodie, and starts dabbing his chest. At this point a small crowd has gathered and camera-phone flashes light up the little shop area. Except the woman isn’t so much wiping as she is caressing, the napkins a mere formality, working her way lower and lower on his stomach with calculated swipes, and the Doctor looks befuddled, as though he can’t figure out whether it’d be rude to interrupt her efforts.
The Doctor is rude quite often, but these kind of situations tend to leave him flustered.
Rose swoops in.
“Bathroom’s this way!” she says, stepping between the two of them and dragging the Doctor along to the tiny men’s room.
“She knew who you were when she spotted you across the restaurant. She did that on purpose,” Rose mutters, clicking the bolt on the lock. When she turns around, she finds him half-naked in front of the sink, shirt already thrust under the running tap.
“I told you I ought to wear that fake moustache. That would stop these kinds of things from happening.”
“It was damp before — now it’s soaked!” she sighs, staring at him.
“Don’t want this to stain — it’s my favorite, Abercrombie and Fitch!” he says. Rose is beginning to wonder about the Doctor’s obsession with American retailers sporting double names.
“You haven’t got a shirt on, and it’s snowing outside!” she replies, trying to keep her voice down.
The pictures of the Doctor wearing her fluorescent pink zip-up jacket on the walk back to the hotel make the front page of the gossip rags on both sides of the Atlantic, and the coffee-spilling woman scores four different interviews where she’s relentlessly quizzed about the firmness of the Doctor’s chest. She finds a new career out of the entire incident, too, running a wildly successful fan website called LINDA, Lifelong INterest in the Doctor’s Abs.
The Doctor’s choice of username when he registers for membership: HotDoc69.
(Three.)
Rose is, without reservation, happy for them. It’s been over with Mickey for a long time and Martha is – Martha’s amazing. Plus, Rose has the Doctor.
In fact, Rose had the Doctor not 45 minutes before they’d left for the reception. The ceremony had been a private thing, just a handful of them standing in a tiny room while Mickey and Martha said their vows.
But the reception – the reception is huge. It seems like it’s been forever and they still don’t talk about finances, Rose and the Doctor, but whatever he’d offered in the way of monetary support for this party – and the matching charity donation – had to be driving some banker somewhere absolutely spare.
A grand ballroom and sparkling decorations, a stage outfitted with the best instruments the music industry had to offer and more than a few rock stars in attendance eyeing them hungrily. If there’s not a blog-shattering performance sometime tonight, Rose will be the next up the aisle, and she’ll eat her veil.
But all of that pales in comparison to the refreshments. Chips bussed in from Mickey’s favorite shop around the corner from the Powell Estate. The curry Martha had discovered in New Dehli, the chef flown down first class. And more top shelf liquor than Rose has ever seen – and certainly more than she could hope to ever try.
Donna though, Donna is a making a valiant effort. She’s just moved on to ordering her drinks by color (“The blue one! And the umbrella better match!”) when Rose calls the Doctor in.
“Can you keep an eye on her? She doesn’t look so great.”
The Doctor nods and wraps Donna’s arm around his waist, guiding her to the table. “Let’s take a break, you’ve got plenty of time to try the rest.”
Donna curls her fingers into the Doctor’s shirt, swaying unsteadily. “Oh, we’ve got plenty of time? Look at you, lording over how much time we have like some sort of – some sort of Time Lord!”
And then she turns her head into his chest, and discreetly vomits into the pocket of his Oxford, getting just enough on his jacket as to make that unwearable, too.
He deposits Donna at a table in the back with a pitcher of water and strips off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in a v-necked undershirt. No one but Rose had been paying attention, and the stains aren’t large, but the way he’s wrinkling his nose indicates something smells.
He wheels around to Rose, glaring at the bartender over her shoulder. “Nothing with pears, I told him specifically – nothing with pears!”
It’s part of the reason Rose loves him that he’s upset not by the vomit, but by the pears.
She laughs, “Come on, Doctor, let’s see if we can’t pair you with another shirt.”
The Doctor’s eyes widen. “Just for that, Rose Tyler, I’m taking my trousers off, too.”
And he does.
The cover of the Daily Mail the next morning is the Doctor on stage in his underwear, under the headline “Doctor Goes Bananas for Pears.”
Donna buys him 15 copies, and a new suit.
(Four.)
The Doctor might be capable of subsisting on nothing but chips and soda and still maintain his ever-flat stomach, but Jackie called Rose after their last televised performance, harping on her about the five pounds she’d gained. So at the next stop, Rose carves out an hour to spend in the hotel gym. The Doctor trails along, finds a chair somewhere, and pulls it up next to her treadmill.
“Are you certain that outfit’s providing enough support? There’s a lot of … movement happening, with all this jogging. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to strain anything, or –”
“M’outfit’s just fine,” she panted. “Oi, eyes up here!”
“You ran faster when those paparazzi invaded your mum’s mansion – I remember how quick we made it out into the yard? ‘Course they were waiting there for us, wasn’t my greatest tactical maneuver, I admit …”
“You threw up your hands and told them you surrendered, Doctor.”
“You ought to increase the slope, Rose, if you want to really get your heartrate going.”
“That’s it!” Rose pointed to the treadmill next to her. “You’ve got so many suggestions, you take a turn!”
He smiled, hopping up from the chair. “Ooh, is this a race?”
“Endurance. Whoever lasts the longest gets to pick the set list tomorrow,” Rose agrees, stopping her treadmill. Because maybe, just maybe, this will keep him quiet enough so she can finish her workout.
He’s in his oxford and pinstripes, and he strips off his jacket before stepping up onto the machine beside her. “Winner picks the set list and gets to choose his favorite lingerie for you to wear afterward.”
She grins mischievously, tongue touching the corner of her mouth. “You’re that confident? Fine. Winner gets to pick my lingerie for the loser to wear afterward.”
“Done!” And he’s pushing buttons apparently willy-nilly, the belt starts moving, and his legs are churning with remarkable speed. He’s got a runner’s body, Rose can’t deny, but he’s best at sprints, and Rose feels confident she can outlast him.
It turns out that endurance doesn’t win the race – the seams on the Doctor’s pinstriped trousers are the deciding factor. He’s well into it, taking long strides, easily outpacing Rose, and there’s a loud riiiiiiiiiiiip and he goes down, the still-spinning belt flinging him backward onto the floor.
Rose hops off her machine and crouches over him in a mild panic. “Oh my god, Doctor, are you all right?” She’s touching his head, running her hands over his arms, looking for broken bones.
“That doesn’t count as a loss!” he protests, sitting up with a frown and rubbing his head.
Rose realizes he isn’t bleeding; the only thing hurt is his ego. “Who stopped running first?”
“It was a technicality!”
“You’re going to look smashing in that frilly blue babydoll of mine, the one with the garters and the strategically placed embroidered flowers,” she continues, as though he hadn’t spoken.
He’s sputtering. “But I – it wasn’t – that’s cheating, Rose Tyler!”
“Ohh, but your trousers!” she says, pointing. Ripped, from crotch to knee.
He walks back to their hotel room in too much of a sulk to notice the stares he gets while parading through the lobby wearing only his boxer-briefs and oxford.
(Five.)
It’s another in-studio with Jack and, as usual, it’s gotten out of hand.
An impromptu game of listener-driven “Stump the Doctor” has turned into an impromptu game of “Strip Stump the Doctor” and Jack is pulling out all the stops.
“Listeners, you’re smart enough to tune in here every morning, so use those brains and call in!”
In the last five minutes alone, they’d had a nuclear physicist, a Monty Python joke, a curator for the British Museum and a chef.
The Doctor hadn’t lost a stitch of clothing, but Jack stood in the middle of the studio in his pants, gamely removing an item of clothing any time he confessed to not knowing an answer. Rose is pretty sure Jack definitely knew how James Bond took his martini and the sum of 900 and 19, but he’d stripped off anyway.
It had looked like it was going to be a total wash, the Doctor spending the whole interview in the clothes he’d come in with when Jack giggled into his headset.
“All right, Doctor, we’ve got a mystery caller, with an all or nothing final question. Do you dare?”
The Doctor kicked back and reclined in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, I dare.”
Jack clapped. “Caller? You’re on!”
The voice of Rose’s mum filled the studio, rapid fire and shrill: “Ask that little twit when my birthday is! And why he didn’t see fit to bring my only daughter home for it! Better yet, ask him where my kettle’s gotten to, I know he has it! Oh, ask him where his socks belong because I’ll tell you where it’s not – in the middle of my living room!”
The Doctor’s eyes widened and he scrambled away from the soundboard, yanking his headphones off dramatically.
He ripped his suit jacket from his shoulder, pulling his tie over his head while he hopped out of his trainers. “Turn it off, turn it off, you win!”
Jack spun back to the desk. “For those of you that missed the live video stream today, we’ll have the recording up online within the hour!”
(One.)
It was bound to happen sooner or later – the label noticing they could cover more ground with the press if they split them up.
So, in support of a live album recorded months ago at Royal Albert Hall, they’d put Rose in America and the Doctor in Asia and set off a week of increasingly dirty text messages, and more than a few scandalous photos.
But it was over now, and Rose felt like the week like it had been years. The last photo Rose had received, from Donna this time, of the Doctor standing on a beach looking forlorn, the words He misses you typed out in an e-mail was still open and glowing at her from the screen on her laptop.
They’d be asking her to turn it off soon, and stow the computer for landing as they arrived at Heathrow – hopefully close to the Doctor’s own arrival time.
It was.
In fact, it was only 10 minutes after she’d made her way to the pick up area that she’d spotted the Doctor, hurtling around other passengers like some sort of courteous asteroid until he collided with her against the side of Wilf’s car.
He’d brought the limo this time, a navy thing with leather interiors and the Doctor had only just removed his tongue from Rose’s mouth when Wilf cleared his throat.
“Might be some traffic on the way back in.” He smiled. “I should also mention – the partition’s stuck up. I’ll have it looked at tomorrow.”
The Doctor has the door open and Rose inside so fast that she nearly forgets her luggage, stacked precariously next to the curb. It’s just occurred to her that the Doctor appears to have no luggage when her suitcases tumble in, the Doctor right behind them, kicking them to front of the space.
He slams the door behind him as Wilf starts the car and pulls away.
“Now, Rose Tyler.” And he turns on her with a gleam in his eye. “Those stockings from Tuesday’s email. Am I correct in presuming you have them on right now?”
She’s about to tell him to find out for himself when he takes the initiative and walks his fingers up her thighs.
“Oh, you do!” And he wiggles his fingers under the strap of her suspenders, pulling and snapping them back to her legs in unison. “That’s for not including a picture.”
It’s to be like that then, is it?
She grabs him roughly by the hair, yanking his neck to her mouth, marking it with her teeth as he half-yelps, half-groans in her ear.
“That’s for getting me all worked up on Thursday and then turning your phone off!”
His fingers have moved to the buttons of her blouse, undoing them swiftly. “Time zones, Rose! I was knackered and I had to, you know, get a hold of a few things.”
She shoves his hands out the way and strips off the shirt, before shuffling away to the far side of the seat.
“And you couldn’t tell me about it? What you’d gotten a hold of?”
She reaches to her back and undoes her bra, shimmying the straps down her arms to remove it and flinging it away.
“Now you will sit there while I get a hold of something. A couple of somethings.”
She lifts her hands up and locks eyes with him, daring him to move.
It only takes 15 seconds for him to chance it, pitching his weight across the car and into her. He’s nipping at her, hips in between her legs and bucking.
She pulls at his shirt ineffectually and then he’s yanking it up over his head and rucking her skirt up.
He pulls back to undo his trousers, dropping them with his pants to his knees before he covers her on the bench.
The kiss he gives her is wet and slow, all winding tongues and gentle movements.
When he pulls back, he winks at her. “That’s for what I’m about to do to your knickers.”
It’s an hour later, redressed and rumpled, when they arrive home. Wilf opens the door for them and the Doctor shoves several bank notes into his hand.
“That’s to leave the partition broken.”