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It’s the third outfit he’s put on since she’d sat down at the computer. He keeps trotting up and down the stairs to change, trying to get her attention away from work and on to him.
“Look, Rose, a waistcoat! You know where one would wear a nice waistcoat like this?”
She folds her book closed, glancing to check the progress of the download on her computer screen. Six minutes left.
She takes him in, turning her head to the side and squinting.
“The 19th century?”
“No! Well, yes. But as the 19th century is no longer at our disposal, I was thinking more along the lines of that nice, new restaurant down the street. The one with all the desserts — the banana desserts — in the window. I think you can see where I’m going with this.”
“Is it out to dinner alone? Is that where you’re going with it?”
It’s not that she wants to spend her Friday night working — in fact, she’d much rather go out to dinner with the Doctor and his banana desserts. Or maybe get those desserts as takeaway and figure out who makes the best plate. But she had to get this done, or they’d be calling her all weekend.
“Right, I can see you won’t be swayed by my handsome waistcoat, even if it does make me look quite dashing. Dapper. Devastating. I’ll just have to try again. You realize I’ll be on my fifth outfit of the day and you’re still in your work clothes? Poor form, Rose Tyler.”
She sets her book aside and braces to stand, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted me to change, I’ll just go put on something else — which could take ages, you know — and then come back and begin my work again.”
“No, no, no, no, you work, get it done, top priority, fast as you please. I’ll just give this one more go,” and he takes off for the bedroom.
Her download finishes while he’s upstairs, and she’s able to extract the file and make the necessary edits, sending it off again before she hears his feet on the stairs.
She turns to see the Doctor, perched on the very last step, completely naked.
“That — that’s not an outfit, Doctor.” But she’s more concerned with things like the soft smattering of hair on his chest, the lines and curves of his ribs, the jut of his hipbones.
And, there, between them and lower, the clear evidence that he’d now be more than happy to skip going out. She’s out of her seat and across the living room before he even has time to say whatever quirky thing is parting his lips.
They’re up the stairs in minutes, popping buttons from her blouse and tearing her stockings before tumbling to the bed. He’s just settling between her thighs when he stops to look down at her and wink.
“Birthday suit! I should’ve known that one was your favorite.”
(Source: itsaidiwasgonnadieinbattle)
