Fic: Fancy Dress.
TITLE: Fancy Dress.
AUTHOR: Mexx.
EMAIL: geektragedy@gmail.com
RATING: 13+
DISCLAIMER: Jack's not mine, Rose ain't mine, and nor is the Doctor. We could pretend that Malcolm is my own creation, but secretly he belongs to Joss Whedon.
SUMMARY: America, 1890. Wherein Rose is dressed like a hooker, the Doctor is snarky, and Jack almost doesn't get laid.
AN: Written for the Jack Harkness ficathon for scribewraith.
AN2: My history might be really, really off, but I really, really tried.
Jack Harkness smoothed down the lapels of his tan waistcoat, and tilted his hat a little to the left. Looking at his reflection from beneath the large brim of his hat, he had to admit he looked pretty damn good. This late 19th Century look was definitely one of his favourites, and he couldn't wait to see what the TARDIS's never ending wardrobe would supply for the Doctor and Rose. The idea of Rose in a Native American headdress and little else was certainly appealing, if a little unlikely.
With a final adjustment of the slim neck-tie around the collarless shirt, Jack made to leave his room in search of his two companions, but before he could make it to the door, Rose burst in without so much as a knock, and sat, sulkily, on his bed. Her outfit was certainly an interesting one, just as he'd suspected, but her mood was certainly ruining the effect it might otherwise have had.
“Good evening to you too,” he greeted her sarcastically.
Rose snorted in reply.
“What's up?” he asked, sitting next to her.
“I'm fine, it's the Doctor; he's being mean.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Since he'd met them, the two of them had either been flirting or bickering, and while it was never dull, he hated being caught in the middle. In other circumstances, he would have been all for being caught in the middle of these two, sure, but not when they were fighting.
“He didn't like my dress,” she complained, pouting.
Jack sniggered to himself - who honestly wouldn’t want to admire Rose in this get-up? “Stand up,” he instructed, gently hoisting her up so she stood in front of him as he appraised her.
She stood before him, hands on hips, smiling wryly. The dress was, well... considering across the Atlantic they were freaking out over showing a little ankle, the dress was positively indecent. In a colour that Jack would lovingly describe as 'dirty red', with black lace trimmings, it barely brushed her shoulders before dipping low to her cleavage, and then bunching tightly underneath her breasts. The top finished in a boned corset, making Rose's slim waist even tinier. The skirt flared out at her hips, dancing around her legs as she wiggled her hips as she posed for him.
“'S not that bad, is it?” she asked after he'd said nothing for a moment.
“It's... it's fantastic, Rose.” He grinned. “That slit there, it's just a little distracting...” He indicated the thigh-high slit, revealing fish-net stocking-clad legs, and ankle boots.
“Shall we make a move then?” she asked after a moment of slight awkwardness, and motioned towards the door.
Jack stood up, then hesitated. “Is the Doctor ready?”
Rose shrugged. “Not sure if he's even coming. He was still fiddling with the TARDIS five minutes ago.”
--
Somewhere between his bedroom and the control room, Rose had acquired a feather boa. She was securing it around her shoulders, purposely ignoring Jack as he spoke the Doctor.
“You're not changing?” Jack asked.
The Doctor looked up at him from beneath the control panel he was working on with raised eyebrows. The look clearly said 'I don't think so', and Jack wasn't surprised. The man didn't even try to blend in, and on the adventures Jack had shared with him, he was sure it'd done them more harm than good. Still, as long as he kept wearing that leather jacket, Jack wasn't going to complain at all.
Jack glanced at Rose, who was purposefully leaning against the door. Then he looked back at the Doctor. “You joining us?” he asked.
The Doctor looked up toward Rose who was still glaring, then shook his head. “Don't think she wants me along for this one.”
“She has a name, y'know,” Rose replied edgily.
“See what I mean?” the Doctor replied, and grinned tightly. Then he lowered his voice, “Have fun, and er, don't let her sell herself to anyone.”
Rose stormed out, and Jack, following the Doctor's advice, marched after her.
Outside of the TARDIS, the sun was setting over the homesteader town as evening settled in. The town, consisting of wooden buildings that looked like nothing more than barns with porches to Jack, looked small, especially in comparison to their last trip: New New York City, 2819.
The TARDIS had landed discreetly between two buildings, and by the smell and the noise, Jack was pretty sure the one to his left was a bar of some description. A saloon, if his memory of late 19th Century America served. Excellent.
Beside him, Rose shivered slightly. He asked, “Cold?”
“I'm fine,” she huffed.
“Jeez,” Jack winced. “What is with you today?”
“Nothing.”
“You're not still sore because the Doctor didn't like your dress, are you?” Jack asked, rolling his eyes.
“He said I looked like I worked the streets!” Rose protested angrily, but Jack remained puzzled.
“You looked like you what?” he queried, his grasp of 21st Century slang failing him a little.
“You know,” she hissed. “A prossie.”
“A prossie - Oh, a prostitute?” he exclaimed, beginning to laugh.
“'S not funny!” she retorted.
Jack laughed harder. “Oh, Rose. You're dressed as a saloon girl; of course he said that.”
Rose's eyes widened considerably. “You what? Like in ‘Moulin Rouge’?”
“The whorehouse? Yes.”
Rose flushed, her complexion quickly reddening to match her dress. Jack took pity on her, and offered her his arm. “Come on, we'll go and get ourselves a couple of martinis and then we can discuss how much you charge.”
“Pig,” Rose retorted, slapping his arm.
“Mates rates?” Jack asked, half-joking.
“Yeah right, you wish.” She marched off in front, heading toward the swinging doors of the saloon. Jack remained behind, admiring the view before Rose swung around and asked, “You coming or what?”
--
“I don't drink gin!” Rose protested as Jack set the drink in front of her. He smirked. When they first met, Rose had insisted she didn't drink rum or absinthe either, but after a few nights out with Jack, had no problem in downing either of them. Besides, it was her third martini (his fifth), and she didn't seem to be holding them too badly.
Jack slid into the booth opposite Rose, and she smiled up at him, despite her complaints about his drink of choice. Her knee tentatively brushed his underneath the table, and Jack smiled back. Away from the Doctor she was so much more playful, especially physically. It was probably a bit dastardly to lead her on, take advantage - the Doctor would certainly berate him for it, but Jack had never made any pretences around Rose (except for the Time Agent thing - one teensy lie). He adored her and was attracted to her, he respected her, and she knew him well enough to know that he really. liked. sex. He didn't have a problem slipping one leg between hers beneath the table, and the nagging thought of, What would the Doctor say? was silenced by the alcohol he'd consumed.
Rose took an unladylike gulp of her drink. “You flirting with that barman?”
Jack raised an eyebrow, feigning shock.
“Oh, come on. You don't know how not to flirt.”
“And the reason your legs are wrapped around mine is because there is just not much room under this table, right Rose?” Jack replied, delighting in the look of embarrassed alarm that shook her features.
Rose took another drink of her martini, consuming the drink at an alarming rate. “I am just a very tactile person, the Doctor says so,” she pronounced soundly, and slammed her empty glass onto the table.
“And just how tactile are we planning on getting tonight?” Jack gave Rose a half-smile, and lowered his head a touch. Looking at her from beneath lowered lashes always did the trick with Rose.
She protested, “Jack!” And laughed at his audacious flirting.
Jack's smiled widened, and he pushed his tongue between his teeth to lick his lips. He inched his leg forward, and brushed her inner thigh.
Jack watched as Rose's eyes narrowed; he could practically hear the wheels turning in her mind, deliberating on whether to pursue him, whether to up the flirting another notch. But she turned, startled, as a stranger approached their booth.
“You working this guy all night, darlin'?” the stranger addressed Rose, and tilted his hat in greeting.
“Er...” Rose replied dumbly, and then looked toward Jack for help.
Jack said nothing, but underneath the table, groped for her knee. Her eyes widened in response, and Jack thought he saw arousal mixed in with the embarrassment and discomfort.
Jack turned to the stranger, smiling broadly. “She's with me. Indefinitely.”
“And after that, she's with me,” came a familiar Northern sounding reply. Jack turned to find the Doctor leaning forward onto the back of the booth behind him, smiling broadly. “You alright?”
Rose snorted. “Bog off.”
“Aw come on, Rose. I said the same thing and you're not sore with me, are ya?”
“You at least explained why!” she snapped at him.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. “I thought it was pretty self-explanatory, myself.”
Rose huffed, and steered away from Jack under the table. “Well I'm sorry if we can't all be geniuses.”
“You can't be mad at me just because you think you're thick,” the Doctor argued.
“You think I'm thick then?” Rose put her hands on her hips, and glared at the man behind Jack.
“Did you hear me say 'Rose, you're thick'?” the Doctor raised his eyebrows pointedly. “No, I didn't think so.”
“You implied it!”
Jack made a resigned sigh. They sounded like they were in for the long haul, and Rose obviously preferred arguing with the Doctor to being felt up by Jack himself. He should have learnt by now not to bother with Rose - she was fickle, and young, and in love with the Doctor, apparently - but she was there and tempting and - was that guy who'd approached Rose checking him out?
The guy, who appeared to look more and more like a handsome cowboy with every passing minute, hadn't left them when the Doctor had arrived, but watched the exchange with a bemused expression. He must have thought it some sort of lover's tiff, Jack guessed. But somewhere along the line his interest had switched from the arguing couple to Jack himself. His eyes were dark, keen and his lips were quickly wet by a dart of his tongue.
Never one to let an opportunity like this pass, Jack stood up and introduced himself. “Captain Jack Harkness,” he greeted, and shook the hand of the stranger tightly, with a slight caress of the fingers as he released the hand.
“I'm Malcolm,” he introduced himself.
“Well Malcolm,” Jack suggested, leaning a little more close than was proper. “Can I buy you a drink?”
-- finis.
AUTHOR: Mexx.
EMAIL: geektragedy@gmail.com
RATING: 13+
DISCLAIMER: Jack's not mine, Rose ain't mine, and nor is the Doctor. We could pretend that Malcolm is my own creation, but secretly he belongs to Joss Whedon.
SUMMARY: America, 1890. Wherein Rose is dressed like a hooker, the Doctor is snarky, and Jack almost doesn't get laid.
AN: Written for the Jack Harkness ficathon for scribewraith.
AN2: My history might be really, really off, but I really, really tried.
Jack Harkness smoothed down the lapels of his tan waistcoat, and tilted his hat a little to the left. Looking at his reflection from beneath the large brim of his hat, he had to admit he looked pretty damn good. This late 19th Century look was definitely one of his favourites, and he couldn't wait to see what the TARDIS's never ending wardrobe would supply for the Doctor and Rose. The idea of Rose in a Native American headdress and little else was certainly appealing, if a little unlikely.
With a final adjustment of the slim neck-tie around the collarless shirt, Jack made to leave his room in search of his two companions, but before he could make it to the door, Rose burst in without so much as a knock, and sat, sulkily, on his bed. Her outfit was certainly an interesting one, just as he'd suspected, but her mood was certainly ruining the effect it might otherwise have had.
“Good evening to you too,” he greeted her sarcastically.
Rose snorted in reply.
“What's up?” he asked, sitting next to her.
“I'm fine, it's the Doctor; he's being mean.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Since he'd met them, the two of them had either been flirting or bickering, and while it was never dull, he hated being caught in the middle. In other circumstances, he would have been all for being caught in the middle of these two, sure, but not when they were fighting.
“He didn't like my dress,” she complained, pouting.
Jack sniggered to himself - who honestly wouldn’t want to admire Rose in this get-up? “Stand up,” he instructed, gently hoisting her up so she stood in front of him as he appraised her.
She stood before him, hands on hips, smiling wryly. The dress was, well... considering across the Atlantic they were freaking out over showing a little ankle, the dress was positively indecent. In a colour that Jack would lovingly describe as 'dirty red', with black lace trimmings, it barely brushed her shoulders before dipping low to her cleavage, and then bunching tightly underneath her breasts. The top finished in a boned corset, making Rose's slim waist even tinier. The skirt flared out at her hips, dancing around her legs as she wiggled her hips as she posed for him.
“'S not that bad, is it?” she asked after he'd said nothing for a moment.
“It's... it's fantastic, Rose.” He grinned. “That slit there, it's just a little distracting...” He indicated the thigh-high slit, revealing fish-net stocking-clad legs, and ankle boots.
“Shall we make a move then?” she asked after a moment of slight awkwardness, and motioned towards the door.
Jack stood up, then hesitated. “Is the Doctor ready?”
Rose shrugged. “Not sure if he's even coming. He was still fiddling with the TARDIS five minutes ago.”
--
Somewhere between his bedroom and the control room, Rose had acquired a feather boa. She was securing it around her shoulders, purposely ignoring Jack as he spoke the Doctor.
“You're not changing?” Jack asked.
The Doctor looked up at him from beneath the control panel he was working on with raised eyebrows. The look clearly said 'I don't think so', and Jack wasn't surprised. The man didn't even try to blend in, and on the adventures Jack had shared with him, he was sure it'd done them more harm than good. Still, as long as he kept wearing that leather jacket, Jack wasn't going to complain at all.
Jack glanced at Rose, who was purposefully leaning against the door. Then he looked back at the Doctor. “You joining us?” he asked.
The Doctor looked up toward Rose who was still glaring, then shook his head. “Don't think she wants me along for this one.”
“She has a name, y'know,” Rose replied edgily.
“See what I mean?” the Doctor replied, and grinned tightly. Then he lowered his voice, “Have fun, and er, don't let her sell herself to anyone.”
Rose stormed out, and Jack, following the Doctor's advice, marched after her.
Outside of the TARDIS, the sun was setting over the homesteader town as evening settled in. The town, consisting of wooden buildings that looked like nothing more than barns with porches to Jack, looked small, especially in comparison to their last trip: New New York City, 2819.
The TARDIS had landed discreetly between two buildings, and by the smell and the noise, Jack was pretty sure the one to his left was a bar of some description. A saloon, if his memory of late 19th Century America served. Excellent.
Beside him, Rose shivered slightly. He asked, “Cold?”
“I'm fine,” she huffed.
“Jeez,” Jack winced. “What is with you today?”
“Nothing.”
“You're not still sore because the Doctor didn't like your dress, are you?” Jack asked, rolling his eyes.
“He said I looked like I worked the streets!” Rose protested angrily, but Jack remained puzzled.
“You looked like you what?” he queried, his grasp of 21st Century slang failing him a little.
“You know,” she hissed. “A prossie.”
“A prossie - Oh, a prostitute?” he exclaimed, beginning to laugh.
“'S not funny!” she retorted.
Jack laughed harder. “Oh, Rose. You're dressed as a saloon girl; of course he said that.”
Rose's eyes widened considerably. “You what? Like in ‘Moulin Rouge’?”
“The whorehouse? Yes.”
Rose flushed, her complexion quickly reddening to match her dress. Jack took pity on her, and offered her his arm. “Come on, we'll go and get ourselves a couple of martinis and then we can discuss how much you charge.”
“Pig,” Rose retorted, slapping his arm.
“Mates rates?” Jack asked, half-joking.
“Yeah right, you wish.” She marched off in front, heading toward the swinging doors of the saloon. Jack remained behind, admiring the view before Rose swung around and asked, “You coming or what?”
--
“I don't drink gin!” Rose protested as Jack set the drink in front of her. He smirked. When they first met, Rose had insisted she didn't drink rum or absinthe either, but after a few nights out with Jack, had no problem in downing either of them. Besides, it was her third martini (his fifth), and she didn't seem to be holding them too badly.
Jack slid into the booth opposite Rose, and she smiled up at him, despite her complaints about his drink of choice. Her knee tentatively brushed his underneath the table, and Jack smiled back. Away from the Doctor she was so much more playful, especially physically. It was probably a bit dastardly to lead her on, take advantage - the Doctor would certainly berate him for it, but Jack had never made any pretences around Rose (except for the Time Agent thing - one teensy lie). He adored her and was attracted to her, he respected her, and she knew him well enough to know that he really. liked. sex. He didn't have a problem slipping one leg between hers beneath the table, and the nagging thought of, What would the Doctor say? was silenced by the alcohol he'd consumed.
Rose took an unladylike gulp of her drink. “You flirting with that barman?”
Jack raised an eyebrow, feigning shock.
“Oh, come on. You don't know how not to flirt.”
“And the reason your legs are wrapped around mine is because there is just not much room under this table, right Rose?” Jack replied, delighting in the look of embarrassed alarm that shook her features.
Rose took another drink of her martini, consuming the drink at an alarming rate. “I am just a very tactile person, the Doctor says so,” she pronounced soundly, and slammed her empty glass onto the table.
“And just how tactile are we planning on getting tonight?” Jack gave Rose a half-smile, and lowered his head a touch. Looking at her from beneath lowered lashes always did the trick with Rose.
She protested, “Jack!” And laughed at his audacious flirting.
Jack's smiled widened, and he pushed his tongue between his teeth to lick his lips. He inched his leg forward, and brushed her inner thigh.
Jack watched as Rose's eyes narrowed; he could practically hear the wheels turning in her mind, deliberating on whether to pursue him, whether to up the flirting another notch. But she turned, startled, as a stranger approached their booth.
“You working this guy all night, darlin'?” the stranger addressed Rose, and tilted his hat in greeting.
“Er...” Rose replied dumbly, and then looked toward Jack for help.
Jack said nothing, but underneath the table, groped for her knee. Her eyes widened in response, and Jack thought he saw arousal mixed in with the embarrassment and discomfort.
Jack turned to the stranger, smiling broadly. “She's with me. Indefinitely.”
“And after that, she's with me,” came a familiar Northern sounding reply. Jack turned to find the Doctor leaning forward onto the back of the booth behind him, smiling broadly. “You alright?”
Rose snorted. “Bog off.”
“Aw come on, Rose. I said the same thing and you're not sore with me, are ya?”
“You at least explained why!” she snapped at him.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. “I thought it was pretty self-explanatory, myself.”
Rose huffed, and steered away from Jack under the table. “Well I'm sorry if we can't all be geniuses.”
“You can't be mad at me just because you think you're thick,” the Doctor argued.
“You think I'm thick then?” Rose put her hands on her hips, and glared at the man behind Jack.
“Did you hear me say 'Rose, you're thick'?” the Doctor raised his eyebrows pointedly. “No, I didn't think so.”
“You implied it!”
Jack made a resigned sigh. They sounded like they were in for the long haul, and Rose obviously preferred arguing with the Doctor to being felt up by Jack himself. He should have learnt by now not to bother with Rose - she was fickle, and young, and in love with the Doctor, apparently - but she was there and tempting and - was that guy who'd approached Rose checking him out?
The guy, who appeared to look more and more like a handsome cowboy with every passing minute, hadn't left them when the Doctor had arrived, but watched the exchange with a bemused expression. He must have thought it some sort of lover's tiff, Jack guessed. But somewhere along the line his interest had switched from the arguing couple to Jack himself. His eyes were dark, keen and his lips were quickly wet by a dart of his tongue.
Never one to let an opportunity like this pass, Jack stood up and introduced himself. “Captain Jack Harkness,” he greeted, and shook the hand of the stranger tightly, with a slight caress of the fingers as he released the hand.
“I'm Malcolm,” he introduced himself.
“Well Malcolm,” Jack suggested, leaning a little more close than was proper. “Can I buy you a drink?”
-- finis.