(no subject)
Office party, TenII/Rose, PG-13, 1572 w.
He forgot what he was on about in his head. Right! Rose. Where had she gotten to? Wasn’t it time to huff and puff and blow her house down? Or was that not right? Something entirely different, he thought. He was mixing his fairytales up again… Blimey, was he drunk…
Little Red Riding Hood, his arse.
She’d been all white thigh-high stockings and black laced cincher and push up Wonderbra cleavage with a frilly red gossamer skirt that came up just to there-right there… So high she couldn’t lean over-not unless it was to give him a peek at the hollow of her thighs as she bent over to get into the taxi-and he saw those frilly and very possibly crotchless (an idea which made him sweat with anticipation, he wouldn’t mind telling you) knickers. She stared at him with those half-lidded hazel eyes with a look that could have melted the cheap plastic interior of the car. She made him carry her wicker basket, but she wouldn’t let him open it, the minx. ‘Course his mind raced with all of the things she could have stashed in it. Things that they could use in the privacy of her locked office. Or the Executive Washroom, for that matter…
Did they make pumpkin pie flavoured lube, he wondered?
Honestly though, he’d thought the whole idea’d been rubbish at first. After all, who in their right mind would actually enjoy themselves at a Torchwood Halloween office party? As if he and Rose and all those people didn’t actually spend enough time there, sitting and talking and working. Was it not enough that they risked their lives for the place practically weekly, saving the day over and over again? But no, now they all had to dress up like idiots and eat canapés and do-what exactly? Talk about the latest spectrograph readings of Glaxis 4 and make rude jokes about the useless radio emission reports from SETI 3?
Please…
And here I am living a life day after day, with a job-same as the rest of the universe. This’ll be me then: Settling down in a house or something with proper doors and carpets. Me! Living in a house!
About there was when Rose stuffed a white stockinged foot into his crotch from across her seat in the taxi.
Now she had the Big Bad Wolf’s full attention. Although only the two of them knew that she was actually one in the same.
*****
Upstairs, the party raged. He was a little surprised to see it, after having been greeted by those twee little Halloween shaped store-bought cookies set out on the buffet upon arriving, but in the main room it looked to him like an Eurippinneac Wedding Festival-a thought that suddenly made him wish Jack had been there, as only he would have gotten the joke… Still, this scene wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned as he’d refused over and over again to go. No. This was something totally different. Because---Now wait just a second-was that Barbara Jones-MacDermitt dressed as Weevil, freak dancing with Paul from accounting in a MIB costume??
Yes, not quite what was expected, indeed.
He wondered if it was the fact they routinely had so much to lose that pushed them to party so wildly and with such abandon?
Rose tugged him by the hand and led him to the open bar. Open. Bar. Mmmmm. Pete Tyler had apparently spared no expense, a fact that was beginning to mildly impress him; for Pete wasn’t like so many of these upper management types he’d known over the years (especially those UNIT-types). No, Pete put himself on the front lines-as much as he could with Jackie and all-but he understood what the job was and what everybody faced.
“Banana daiquiri?” chirped Rose.
His eyes grew big, his smile bigger. Yessiree, that Pete Tyler was one helluva good guy!
*****
Several banana daiquiris, many “slightly” off-key karaoke versions of Proclaimers songs, and one occasion of actual dancing that may or may not have included a proverbial lampshade later, the Doctor stumbled through the crowd of similarly drunk co-workers to find his Red Riding Hood. He’d lost her somehow-couldn’t imagine how-she’d been right next to him the whole time. Well, most of the whole time. Hadn’t she? He couldn’t remember, exactly. Perhaps she’d gotten frustrated with him once he’d sparked up a lively conversation about Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle with Joe Evanstone from engineering. And Jill Davis in R&D had some fascinating things to report about magnifying the growth matrix for the new TARDIS--he just wished he could remember now what they were…
But it was hardly his fault, because at sometime or another the entire crowd on hand seemed to double in size-or was that just his vision? He wasn’t sure. There just seemed to be two of everyone now. One thing was certain, this rubbishy half-human metacrisis body of his couldn’t hold its liquor quite as well as the superior old Timelord one could. There’d be no beating Rose Tyler in strip Uno in this body! Blasted human physiology blah, blah, blah…
He forgot what he was on about in his head. Right! Rose. Where had she gotten to? Wasn’t it time to huff and puff and blow her house down? Or was that not right? Something entirely different, he thought. He was mixing his fairytales up again… Blimey, was he drunk… Where was he? He watched Denny Velluci and Sara Templeman over in the corner with their tongues down each other’s throats for a second as he tried to clear the booze haze from his mind.
SEX. That was it! Rose had promised him sex in her office! The sly girl had implied there were things in that basket of hers that promised to set his hair on fire. Not that he wanted to set his hair on fire--he liked his hair… But he thought maybe she had meant that as a metaphor of some sort? Or a promise? Maybe an innuendo?
“Hiya, Tiger,” said Rose behind him.
He spun around, grinning wildly. “Not a tiger. Wolf. Big and bad. That’s me.”
“You’re not even dressed up.”
“Nope. Still big and bad, tho.”
She fluttered her eyes at him, “I’ll say!”
He dropped his chin and stared at her through half lidded eyes, which he hoped seemed sexy and not drunk and sloppy or, worse-sleepy. “So, you gonna take me to Grandmother’s house so we can eat all the gingerbread?”
Rose giggled. “Doctor, I think y’just crossed your fairytale streams again!”
“Oh.” He pouted.
“Wow! Doctor, what a big pout you have!”
He grinned, knowing the game was on. He took a wobbly step towards her and looked right into her eyes. “Better to kiss you with, m’dear,” and pulled her into a very promising snog. Around them, a few co-workers witnessing their uncharacteristic public display catcalled childishly.
“I think we’d better move this elsewhere…”
“Yep. I think we’d better had. Something else is getting pretty big… And don’t you dare say it’s the ears!”
She giggled again and grabbed his hand as they headed off towards her office, making absolutely no attempt at disguising their destination to the other colleagues who watched them skulk off. Excessively lubricated with drink, the Doctor tottered behind her, his mind a sultry tumult of anticipation, trying to decide which he use on her first: His big lips, his big tongue or his big--
BING!
The Torchwood elevator slid open in front of them, disgorging a Dalek…
“You have been identified as the Doctor. You are the enemy of the Daleks! You must be destroyed! Exterminate! Exterminate!”
Pushing Rose out of the way, a very drunk Doctor raced up to the Dalek and punched it. He heard Rose screaming as he slipped and fell, passing out.
*****
Slowly, the Doctor came to in A&E, his hand encased in plaster.
Rose stood next to him, her sexy Red Riding Hood outfit covered by a hospital sheet with the words “Property of University Hospital” emblazoned across it.
“Wha happened,” he asked.
“Well. F’starters. You got drunk.”
“Oh… Yeah.”
“Disgustingly drunk.”
“Uh huh.”
“Massively drunk.”
“M’sorry, Rose.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell poor Jake! Y’broke his nose clocking him as he came out of the elevator!”
“He looked like a Dalek! What was I supposed to do?”
“Punch Daleks much, do you? I didn’t know Dalekanium was able to be crushed with the power of a human-Timelord fist!”
“I was drunk!” he yelled, and then he held his pounding head, groaning. “…Said I was sorry.”
Rose shook her head. “Pete isn’t happy. At all.”
“M’sorry. I was so drunk I couldn’t tell it was a costume! All I saw was that it was a Dalek in the Canary Wharf building again and my only thought was of you and how I couldn’t lose you again.”
“Oh. Doctor…”
She wrapped her arms around him, ruffling his hair back off his forehead and kissed him, her heart both swelling and breaking for her gallant and idiotic Doctor-the half-human man who could no longer hold his liquor, but would always own her heart.
The broken fingers in his hand would take 6-8 weeks to heal. Wisely, they skipped the Torchwood Company Holiday party and did their own celebrating at home. The Doctor took future care to remember to take his new human body into consideration whenever he consumed alcohol. Rose kept the Little Red Riding Hood outfit for unsupervised play at home, and also finally made use of the mysterious contents of her little wicker basket-which was well worth the wait! And at Christmastime, the Doctor learned that yes, they do make plum pudding flavoured lube, and it wasn’t half bad…
He forgot what he was on about in his head. Right! Rose. Where had she gotten to? Wasn’t it time to huff and puff and blow her house down? Or was that not right? Something entirely different, he thought. He was mixing his fairytales up again… Blimey, was he drunk…
Little Red Riding Hood, his arse.
She’d been all white thigh-high stockings and black laced cincher and push up Wonderbra cleavage with a frilly red gossamer skirt that came up just to there-right there… So high she couldn’t lean over-not unless it was to give him a peek at the hollow of her thighs as she bent over to get into the taxi-and he saw those frilly and very possibly crotchless (an idea which made him sweat with anticipation, he wouldn’t mind telling you) knickers. She stared at him with those half-lidded hazel eyes with a look that could have melted the cheap plastic interior of the car. She made him carry her wicker basket, but she wouldn’t let him open it, the minx. ‘Course his mind raced with all of the things she could have stashed in it. Things that they could use in the privacy of her locked office. Or the Executive Washroom, for that matter…
Did they make pumpkin pie flavoured lube, he wondered?
Honestly though, he’d thought the whole idea’d been rubbish at first. After all, who in their right mind would actually enjoy themselves at a Torchwood Halloween office party? As if he and Rose and all those people didn’t actually spend enough time there, sitting and talking and working. Was it not enough that they risked their lives for the place practically weekly, saving the day over and over again? But no, now they all had to dress up like idiots and eat canapés and do-what exactly? Talk about the latest spectrograph readings of Glaxis 4 and make rude jokes about the useless radio emission reports from SETI 3?
Please…
And here I am living a life day after day, with a job-same as the rest of the universe. This’ll be me then: Settling down in a house or something with proper doors and carpets. Me! Living in a house!
About there was when Rose stuffed a white stockinged foot into his crotch from across her seat in the taxi.
Now she had the Big Bad Wolf’s full attention. Although only the two of them knew that she was actually one in the same.
*****
Upstairs, the party raged. He was a little surprised to see it, after having been greeted by those twee little Halloween shaped store-bought cookies set out on the buffet upon arriving, but in the main room it looked to him like an Eurippinneac Wedding Festival-a thought that suddenly made him wish Jack had been there, as only he would have gotten the joke… Still, this scene wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned as he’d refused over and over again to go. No. This was something totally different. Because---Now wait just a second-was that Barbara Jones-MacDermitt dressed as Weevil, freak dancing with Paul from accounting in a MIB costume??
Yes, not quite what was expected, indeed.
He wondered if it was the fact they routinely had so much to lose that pushed them to party so wildly and with such abandon?
Rose tugged him by the hand and led him to the open bar. Open. Bar. Mmmmm. Pete Tyler had apparently spared no expense, a fact that was beginning to mildly impress him; for Pete wasn’t like so many of these upper management types he’d known over the years (especially those UNIT-types). No, Pete put himself on the front lines-as much as he could with Jackie and all-but he understood what the job was and what everybody faced.
“Banana daiquiri?” chirped Rose.
His eyes grew big, his smile bigger. Yessiree, that Pete Tyler was one helluva good guy!
*****
Several banana daiquiris, many “slightly” off-key karaoke versions of Proclaimers songs, and one occasion of actual dancing that may or may not have included a proverbial lampshade later, the Doctor stumbled through the crowd of similarly drunk co-workers to find his Red Riding Hood. He’d lost her somehow-couldn’t imagine how-she’d been right next to him the whole time. Well, most of the whole time. Hadn’t she? He couldn’t remember, exactly. Perhaps she’d gotten frustrated with him once he’d sparked up a lively conversation about Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle with Joe Evanstone from engineering. And Jill Davis in R&D had some fascinating things to report about magnifying the growth matrix for the new TARDIS--he just wished he could remember now what they were…
But it was hardly his fault, because at sometime or another the entire crowd on hand seemed to double in size-or was that just his vision? He wasn’t sure. There just seemed to be two of everyone now. One thing was certain, this rubbishy half-human metacrisis body of his couldn’t hold its liquor quite as well as the superior old Timelord one could. There’d be no beating Rose Tyler in strip Uno in this body! Blasted human physiology blah, blah, blah…
He forgot what he was on about in his head. Right! Rose. Where had she gotten to? Wasn’t it time to huff and puff and blow her house down? Or was that not right? Something entirely different, he thought. He was mixing his fairytales up again… Blimey, was he drunk… Where was he? He watched Denny Velluci and Sara Templeman over in the corner with their tongues down each other’s throats for a second as he tried to clear the booze haze from his mind.
SEX. That was it! Rose had promised him sex in her office! The sly girl had implied there were things in that basket of hers that promised to set his hair on fire. Not that he wanted to set his hair on fire--he liked his hair… But he thought maybe she had meant that as a metaphor of some sort? Or a promise? Maybe an innuendo?
“Hiya, Tiger,” said Rose behind him.
He spun around, grinning wildly. “Not a tiger. Wolf. Big and bad. That’s me.”
“You’re not even dressed up.”
“Nope. Still big and bad, tho.”
She fluttered her eyes at him, “I’ll say!”
He dropped his chin and stared at her through half lidded eyes, which he hoped seemed sexy and not drunk and sloppy or, worse-sleepy. “So, you gonna take me to Grandmother’s house so we can eat all the gingerbread?”
Rose giggled. “Doctor, I think y’just crossed your fairytale streams again!”
“Oh.” He pouted.
“Wow! Doctor, what a big pout you have!”
He grinned, knowing the game was on. He took a wobbly step towards her and looked right into her eyes. “Better to kiss you with, m’dear,” and pulled her into a very promising snog. Around them, a few co-workers witnessing their uncharacteristic public display catcalled childishly.
“I think we’d better move this elsewhere…”
“Yep. I think we’d better had. Something else is getting pretty big… And don’t you dare say it’s the ears!”
She giggled again and grabbed his hand as they headed off towards her office, making absolutely no attempt at disguising their destination to the other colleagues who watched them skulk off. Excessively lubricated with drink, the Doctor tottered behind her, his mind a sultry tumult of anticipation, trying to decide which he use on her first: His big lips, his big tongue or his big--
BING!
The Torchwood elevator slid open in front of them, disgorging a Dalek…
“You have been identified as the Doctor. You are the enemy of the Daleks! You must be destroyed! Exterminate! Exterminate!”
Pushing Rose out of the way, a very drunk Doctor raced up to the Dalek and punched it. He heard Rose screaming as he slipped and fell, passing out.
*****
Slowly, the Doctor came to in A&E, his hand encased in plaster.
Rose stood next to him, her sexy Red Riding Hood outfit covered by a hospital sheet with the words “Property of University Hospital” emblazoned across it.
“Wha happened,” he asked.
“Well. F’starters. You got drunk.”
“Oh… Yeah.”
“Disgustingly drunk.”
“Uh huh.”
“Massively drunk.”
“M’sorry, Rose.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell poor Jake! Y’broke his nose clocking him as he came out of the elevator!”
“He looked like a Dalek! What was I supposed to do?”
“Punch Daleks much, do you? I didn’t know Dalekanium was able to be crushed with the power of a human-Timelord fist!”
“I was drunk!” he yelled, and then he held his pounding head, groaning. “…Said I was sorry.”
Rose shook her head. “Pete isn’t happy. At all.”
“M’sorry. I was so drunk I couldn’t tell it was a costume! All I saw was that it was a Dalek in the Canary Wharf building again and my only thought was of you and how I couldn’t lose you again.”
“Oh. Doctor…”
She wrapped her arms around him, ruffling his hair back off his forehead and kissed him, her heart both swelling and breaking for her gallant and idiotic Doctor-the half-human man who could no longer hold his liquor, but would always own her heart.
The broken fingers in his hand would take 6-8 weeks to heal. Wisely, they skipped the Torchwood Company Holiday party and did their own celebrating at home. The Doctor took future care to remember to take his new human body into consideration whenever he consumed alcohol. Rose kept the Little Red Riding Hood outfit for unsupervised play at home, and also finally made use of the mysterious contents of her little wicker basket-which was well worth the wait! And at Christmastime, the Doctor learned that yes, they do make plum pudding flavoured lube, and it wasn’t half bad…