Dorothy's had a weird couple of weeks. It started with the Doctor (tall, pinstripes, hair that does that thing) showing up in the middle of a meeting in Oz, sitting her down and telling her he's scared he's turning evil, and maybe they shouldn't be together anymore, which was very much a low point in... several months, actually. Once that was
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Dorothy plucks the book from his hands and, as she places it on the table next to his chair (on top of the cookies-- a sign she is definitely not in a caring state of mind), she climbs on top of him.
It's true that she had said sit on you, a very nonspecific, vague turn of phrase. And while she had intended to JUST sit on him, as if he were a beanbag and she were entirely unconcerned with his comfort, a last-minute split-second decision caused her to change her mind. With one knee planted firmly on the outside of either of his thighs, she plants her hands against the back of the chair's headrest, one on each side of his head. She leans into him again, and stares directly into his face. As if to say, here is your punishment, sir. Enjoy that.
The silence and tension that hovers in the air is palpable. It is probably not helped by Dorothy just slightly narrowing her eyes at him. Possibly she's daring him to react. ...Okay, more than possibly, that's a straight-up dare. She's demanding he do something.
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He could, if he was human and sixteen, make some lascivious comment about how they're position and be smiling smugly all the way until she got disgusted and left, but unfortunately, in the one point in time were being that would be helpful, he is not, and ends up glaring straight into her eyes because he isn't losing this challenge without a fight.
"Okay, fine! All right!"
Though he never specified how much of a fight.
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"See? Now that wasn't so painful, was it?" Dorothy is not entirely sure why anyone bothers arguing with her in the first place; she's always right, and she always wins. She can be awfully persuasive when she chooses to be, after all. "Awful lot of effort put in just to give in to me in the end anyway. In the future, you oughta just let me win right away. It's quicker."
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Obviously still hurting from the loss, the Doctor thins his lips at her, not exactly frowning, but looking very displeased indeed.
"If you're going to be so smug about it, I'm more than willing to change my mind," he warns bitterly.
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Dorothy saunters over to the gramophone inexplicably located in the console room (why he insists on keeping so much breakable stuff in there is absolutely beyond her) and starts flipping through albums.
"You really don't have the best selection, to be honest. Nothing against jazz, and all, but I prefer something with a beat, especially if I've got to teach."
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"I think you'll find I have one of the best selections around, and it's not all jazz," he insists. "Though I won't deny it's very catchy. I've several minuets, waltzes-" He reaches his hand over, sliding out a few covers for scrutiny. "Hadyn, Chopin, Handel, or if you prefer the terribly clichéd," he smirks, "I do have the Blue Danube."
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She draws out her last syllable longer and longer until she finally finds the album she had been looking for. And it's one that he was likely entirely unfamiliar with, given that she herself had put it there weeks and weeks ago just in case of exactly this sort of situation. A wide grin curls over her face and she nudges him with her shoulder.
"Let's try this on for size," she says, and sets the record to play on a (mercifully slow) song.
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Because yes, that is the thing he's going to bring up right now.
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Taking his hand, she moves back a few steps to a somewhat more open area. Grinning wolfishly at him, she shifts her hand in his and steps a bit closer, moving to put her other hand on his shoulder. Luckily for the Doctor, she is making certain to leave plenty of room for the Holy Ghost.
"Right now, I think what you oughta be worrying about is me."
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"I am worrying about you, Dorothy," he says, twitching his head towards at her hand a bit spastically, "but more importantly, I am highly worried about your feet." That was to say, he was more importantly, and almost entirely, worried about himself. And her feet. But much more himself, and his sense of friendly distance and ease, both of which seemed to have taken this moment to take a long needed holiday.
In the Doctor's opinion, the room left for the Holy Ghost was too small - then again by the Doctor's opinion, the Holy Spirit had grown in waist size by about twenty in the last three minutes. He minutely flails with his free hand that isn't in hers before resting it tentatively on her waist like he's testing if the cloth of her shirt there burn his fingers off.
"Why can't I just go dance the spectator? It involves a lot of sitting down, watching other people, and not actually dancing."
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She slowly begins to rock side to side to the music in possibly the easiest sort of dance known to mankind-- it barely requires moving the feet at all. Maybe a little shuffle here and there. Dorothy is being merciful here not demanding something with a little more swing, but given his reaction, she's not entirely sure what he'd do if she broke out in a Charleston. Though to be honest, she doesn't really feel like a Charleston at the moment anyway.
There's a long moment where it's totally silent between the two of them. The music twinkles away and Dorothy can feel the beat of the Doctor's hearts through the palm of his hand (and it makes her smile, as it always does), and she's sure he's mildly panicking as he does every time she gets remotely physically close to him, so eventually she pipes up again.
"Thanks for this, by the way," she says, quietly, into his ear. "I'm having a hell of a few weeks, and I kinda just needed to be close to somebody for a while. I know you're not happy about it, but it is a big help."
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It occurs to the Doctor that this isn't quite what he'd been expecting when Dorothy said 'dancing'. In fact, in most cultures, he very absolutely doubted that this would be qualified as dancing at all - unless there was a name for holding someone and swaying a bit. But, not being one to complain, he doesn't say anything on the subject for fear of bringing it into the light and making it accidentally sound like some sort of invitation.
After a moment of long, slightly awkward, slightly comfortable silence, after Dorothy thanks him for something as simple as... complaining quite a lot before standing there dumbly like a pillock while her hands push him around a bit in tune with the music, the almost-not-dancing turns into no-dancing-at-all when the Doctor suddenly lets her hand go and gives her instead an extremely fierce hug, leaning back so he lifts her off her feet.
"Dorothy, I am absolutely more than delighted to be of service if it makes you happy - you should know that."
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"Now I do," she mumbles against his jacket. "Thank you." And the Doctor gets a kiss on the cheek, for his trouble.
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"You should keep it in mind," he chastises as he sets her feet back on the ground. "And hopefully try not to use it for blackmail so much in the future."
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"Does that mean you're not gonna dance with me?"
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Unfortunately, a majority of the Doctor is made up of the more sympathetic parts; his ability to speak being one of them.
"Miss Gale," he says, a touch grandly, not too grand, but just for a bit of a show, "It would be my absolute honour to dance with you." If it'll cheer you up, he doesn't add.
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