threads
Threads, TenII/Rose, PG
After all, the image of the Doctor wearing average clothes was surprisingly enticing. 477.
In the beginning, she couldn't get him out of the blue suit.
Well, she had gotten him out of it…more than once, but he always put it right back on again in the morning. She’d tried to insist that they could go buy him a proper wardrobe (God knows they had the money), but he merely shrugged and stubbornly continued wearing the thing. Every day.
She’d washed it, of course.
(If she hadn’t the thing would have gotten up and walked off by now.)
Every laundry day would find him holed up in the flat, wearing an oversized, fluffy dressing gown or the big sweatpants she kept for lazy days off work, because he refused to leave their place without ‘proper attire’.
While she knew he was attached to the suit (and had a right to be, since it was literally all he owned in this entire universe), she found it increasingly difficult to explain why the ‘boyfriend’ of the famous Vitex heiress had so little regard for his appearance.
After four weeks, the situation was getting a bit ridiculous.
After six weeks, it was downright mad, and the suit was wearing through at the knees and elbows. He had never been easy on his clothes (the man was all pointy limbs and adrenaline), but now there was no sonic washer or fabric regenerator to keep them in good condition.
So it came to be that a month and a half after ending up on Bad Wolf Bay together, Rose took the new-new-new Doctor clothes shopping. (He’d done a great deal of pouting beforehand, but even he had to admit that it was time to let it go.)
They’d gone on an all-day spree, with the Doctor seeming to actually enjoy himself. Hours of trying on jumpers and suits and t-shirts and trainers and jeans (God, the jeans) later, he was satisfied with his selections. And so was she.
After all, the image of the Doctor wearing average clothes was surprisingly enticing. It made him seem that bit more human (which, somehow, did not detract from his charm, but only added to it), and gave her hope that maybe he could handle the day-to-day domesticity after all.
Plus he looked so downright comfortable that she found herself constantly curling onto his chest when they watched old films together from the sofa, clinging to him on the tube ride to Torchwood, and not-so-subtly admiring his denim-clad backside whenever she could get behind him.
And some days, when the weather was behaving badly and the alien threats were quiet, they spent the day indoors and she lounged about in one of his shirts and a pair of boxers.
The Doctor, for his part, found himself rather fond of his new clothes; especially when Rose was wearing them.
(And he became quite adept at getting them off of her.)
After all, the image of the Doctor wearing average clothes was surprisingly enticing. 477.
In the beginning, she couldn't get him out of the blue suit.
Well, she had gotten him out of it…more than once, but he always put it right back on again in the morning. She’d tried to insist that they could go buy him a proper wardrobe (God knows they had the money), but he merely shrugged and stubbornly continued wearing the thing. Every day.
She’d washed it, of course.
(If she hadn’t the thing would have gotten up and walked off by now.)
Every laundry day would find him holed up in the flat, wearing an oversized, fluffy dressing gown or the big sweatpants she kept for lazy days off work, because he refused to leave their place without ‘proper attire’.
While she knew he was attached to the suit (and had a right to be, since it was literally all he owned in this entire universe), she found it increasingly difficult to explain why the ‘boyfriend’ of the famous Vitex heiress had so little regard for his appearance.
After four weeks, the situation was getting a bit ridiculous.
After six weeks, it was downright mad, and the suit was wearing through at the knees and elbows. He had never been easy on his clothes (the man was all pointy limbs and adrenaline), but now there was no sonic washer or fabric regenerator to keep them in good condition.
So it came to be that a month and a half after ending up on Bad Wolf Bay together, Rose took the new-new-new Doctor clothes shopping. (He’d done a great deal of pouting beforehand, but even he had to admit that it was time to let it go.)
They’d gone on an all-day spree, with the Doctor seeming to actually enjoy himself. Hours of trying on jumpers and suits and t-shirts and trainers and jeans (God, the jeans) later, he was satisfied with his selections. And so was she.
After all, the image of the Doctor wearing average clothes was surprisingly enticing. It made him seem that bit more human (which, somehow, did not detract from his charm, but only added to it), and gave her hope that maybe he could handle the day-to-day domesticity after all.
Plus he looked so downright comfortable that she found herself constantly curling onto his chest when they watched old films together from the sofa, clinging to him on the tube ride to Torchwood, and not-so-subtly admiring his denim-clad backside whenever she could get behind him.
And some days, when the weather was behaving badly and the alien threats were quiet, they spent the day indoors and she lounged about in one of his shirts and a pair of boxers.
The Doctor, for his part, found himself rather fond of his new clothes; especially when Rose was wearing them.
(And he became quite adept at getting them off of her.)