[fic] It's only dancing
It's Only Dancing
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: fun for the whole family
Ship: Ten/Rose
Summary: It's the Jazz Age, Rose!
A/N: This is for my dear casirafics, in honor of her birthday. *hug* I'm sorry it's late! I was trying to teach myself the Charleston so I could actually write about. I think I've scarred my cats for life. This is about 950 words. Set about midway through the second season.
"Ta-da!" Rose skipped out of the TARDIS. "How do I look?"
"Twirl?" suggested the Doctor.
Rose twirled, causing the fringe on her dress to flutter. "Well?" she said, grinning.
"Rose Tyler," said the Doctor, "you are the bee's knees and the cat's pajamas."
"So, I look like a flapper?"
"Very Colleen Moore. If Colleen Moore had been blonde."
"That's a good thing, yeah?"
"Oh, yes," said the Doctor. "F. Scott Fitzgerald would have approved."
"You're looking pretty dapper there yourself."
"When don't I?" said the Doctor.
She could have said, When my mum's hacked off at you, but something about her slinky dress and his suit, something about the way 1920s Chicago was glittering around them like a dark jewel made her not want to mention or even think about her mum. So, she answered his question with a tilt of her head and a lift of her eyebrows. Interpret that however you like, Doctor.
"The Roaring Twenties," breathed the Doctor. "And did they ever roar. The First World War - the Great War to these people - is over and the Great Depression is years away. It's the Jazz Age, Rose."
"To be honest, I've never been into-"
"The age of Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Gertrude Stein. American women can vote-"
"But not drink."
"Well, they do drink," said the Doctor. "As you'll see. It's the decade of the talking picture! Art Deco! The Harlem Renaissance! Lindbergh's flight from New York to Paris. Brilliant stuff. And - to be honest - plenty of not-so-brilliant stuff. The Depression and World War II didn't come from nothing. Still." He offered her his arm. "Ready to break the law with me?"
"Always," said Rose.
*
"I've got three questions for you," Rose said as they entered the speakeasy. "Four. Those blokes over there," she went on, pointing as discreetly as she could, "are they gangsters?"
The Doctor covered her hand with his own, gently folding her index finger.
"Guess that answers my question," said Rose.
"Yes," said the Doctor. "Second question?"
"Second question," said Rose, raising her voice because the people around her were talking loudly, and a trumpet was blasting what she supposed was jazz. "The bloke who let us in called me the cat's meow. Is that better than being the cat's pajamas? Or not as good?"
"Rose, do you think I'd have said 'absolutely,' if he'd been insulting you?"
"So, meow and pajamas - just as good?"
"Yes."
"Good," said Rose, aware that his hand was still covering hers, "I figured you'd know the password to get us in, but - how did you know? We've only been in Chicago forty minutes - at most. Well?"
"Well…we weren't together the entire forty minutes. And you spent about thirty of those minutes changing."
"Yeah, but you were right outside the TARDIS, waiting."
"Was I?"
You just wandered off without me? Without even telling me? Well, he had just told her, she reasoned. And thirty minutes, she thought with some chagrin, wasn't really an exaggeration.
"Fourth question?" the Doctor prompted.
"Oh, yeah. Those people over there," she said, deciding it was safe to point at them with her free hand. "Is that - what sort of dancing is that?"
"It's the Charleston, Rose! Haven't you ever seen…oh, It's a Wonderful Life? Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed, dancing at their high school gym."
"Haven't seen it. Sorry."
"You don't appreciate jazz, you haven't seen-"
She thwapped his arm gently. "Oi, I'm not judging it. I just said I haven't seen it."
"Well, you don't appreciate jazz."
"No, but…I'm twenty. In ninety years, not very many twenty-year-olds will appreciate jazz. But," she went on hurriedly, because she didn't want either of them thinking about the astronomical difference in their ages, "I could learn. Wasn't that kind of the point of me traveling with you? To learn?"
The Doctor looked down at her, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "To learn. And to have fun."
She cocked her head at the dancers. "That looks like fun. Care to…?"
The Doctor raked a hand through his hair. "Yes, well…"
"You don't know how to Charleston, do you?"
"There was a time, many years ago, when I almost had the opportunity, but-"
"So, now's your opportunity," said Rose earnestly. "Come on. How hard can it be? We're agile. Dance with me." She slipped her hand out from under his and moved it to his shoulder. The last time they'd danced, he'd been a few inches taller. And, she thought, as his right arm curled around her and his palm came to rest between her shoulder blades, she'd been wearing quite a bit more clothing.
His palm was warm against her skin, but it set little icicles jangling in her belly. The string of pink beads around her neck was suddenly heavy. Don't look away, she thought. You're not a child. Look him in the eye. It's only dancing. You're not even dancing yet. You're just standing together. Touching.
His left hand caught her right one and lifted it.
"So," said the Doctor, his breath fanning her upturned face, "it looks easy enough. Just a lot of kicking. We both know how to kick. I'll start with my left, you with your right. On one…"
Her right foot collided with his left shin.
"Ow."
"Sorry, sorry!"
But he laughed, which made her laugh, which melted the icicles.
"Well, now that I'm injured," the Doctor began.
"Oh, you're not getting out of this," Rose told him. She clasped his shoulder, moved a little deeper into the curve of his arm. "We're going to get it right if-"
"-it kills me?"
"That's right. On one…"
8/25/2008
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: fun for the whole family
Ship: Ten/Rose
Summary: It's the Jazz Age, Rose!
A/N: This is for my dear casirafics, in honor of her birthday. *hug* I'm sorry it's late! I was trying to teach myself the Charleston so I could actually write about. I think I've scarred my cats for life. This is about 950 words. Set about midway through the second season.
"Ta-da!" Rose skipped out of the TARDIS. "How do I look?"
"Twirl?" suggested the Doctor.
Rose twirled, causing the fringe on her dress to flutter. "Well?" she said, grinning.
"Rose Tyler," said the Doctor, "you are the bee's knees and the cat's pajamas."
"So, I look like a flapper?"
"Very Colleen Moore. If Colleen Moore had been blonde."
"That's a good thing, yeah?"
"Oh, yes," said the Doctor. "F. Scott Fitzgerald would have approved."
"You're looking pretty dapper there yourself."
"When don't I?" said the Doctor.
She could have said, When my mum's hacked off at you, but something about her slinky dress and his suit, something about the way 1920s Chicago was glittering around them like a dark jewel made her not want to mention or even think about her mum. So, she answered his question with a tilt of her head and a lift of her eyebrows. Interpret that however you like, Doctor.
"The Roaring Twenties," breathed the Doctor. "And did they ever roar. The First World War - the Great War to these people - is over and the Great Depression is years away. It's the Jazz Age, Rose."
"To be honest, I've never been into-"
"The age of Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Gertrude Stein. American women can vote-"
"But not drink."
"Well, they do drink," said the Doctor. "As you'll see. It's the decade of the talking picture! Art Deco! The Harlem Renaissance! Lindbergh's flight from New York to Paris. Brilliant stuff. And - to be honest - plenty of not-so-brilliant stuff. The Depression and World War II didn't come from nothing. Still." He offered her his arm. "Ready to break the law with me?"
"Always," said Rose.
*
"I've got three questions for you," Rose said as they entered the speakeasy. "Four. Those blokes over there," she went on, pointing as discreetly as she could, "are they gangsters?"
The Doctor covered her hand with his own, gently folding her index finger.
"Guess that answers my question," said Rose.
"Yes," said the Doctor. "Second question?"
"Second question," said Rose, raising her voice because the people around her were talking loudly, and a trumpet was blasting what she supposed was jazz. "The bloke who let us in called me the cat's meow. Is that better than being the cat's pajamas? Or not as good?"
"Rose, do you think I'd have said 'absolutely,' if he'd been insulting you?"
"So, meow and pajamas - just as good?"
"Yes."
"Good," said Rose, aware that his hand was still covering hers, "I figured you'd know the password to get us in, but - how did you know? We've only been in Chicago forty minutes - at most. Well?"
"Well…we weren't together the entire forty minutes. And you spent about thirty of those minutes changing."
"Yeah, but you were right outside the TARDIS, waiting."
"Was I?"
You just wandered off without me? Without even telling me? Well, he had just told her, she reasoned. And thirty minutes, she thought with some chagrin, wasn't really an exaggeration.
"Fourth question?" the Doctor prompted.
"Oh, yeah. Those people over there," she said, deciding it was safe to point at them with her free hand. "Is that - what sort of dancing is that?"
"It's the Charleston, Rose! Haven't you ever seen…oh, It's a Wonderful Life? Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed, dancing at their high school gym."
"Haven't seen it. Sorry."
"You don't appreciate jazz, you haven't seen-"
She thwapped his arm gently. "Oi, I'm not judging it. I just said I haven't seen it."
"Well, you don't appreciate jazz."
"No, but…I'm twenty. In ninety years, not very many twenty-year-olds will appreciate jazz. But," she went on hurriedly, because she didn't want either of them thinking about the astronomical difference in their ages, "I could learn. Wasn't that kind of the point of me traveling with you? To learn?"
The Doctor looked down at her, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "To learn. And to have fun."
She cocked her head at the dancers. "That looks like fun. Care to…?"
The Doctor raked a hand through his hair. "Yes, well…"
"You don't know how to Charleston, do you?"
"There was a time, many years ago, when I almost had the opportunity, but-"
"So, now's your opportunity," said Rose earnestly. "Come on. How hard can it be? We're agile. Dance with me." She slipped her hand out from under his and moved it to his shoulder. The last time they'd danced, he'd been a few inches taller. And, she thought, as his right arm curled around her and his palm came to rest between her shoulder blades, she'd been wearing quite a bit more clothing.
His palm was warm against her skin, but it set little icicles jangling in her belly. The string of pink beads around her neck was suddenly heavy. Don't look away, she thought. You're not a child. Look him in the eye. It's only dancing. You're not even dancing yet. You're just standing together. Touching.
His left hand caught her right one and lifted it.
"So," said the Doctor, his breath fanning her upturned face, "it looks easy enough. Just a lot of kicking. We both know how to kick. I'll start with my left, you with your right. On one…"
Her right foot collided with his left shin.
"Ow."
"Sorry, sorry!"
But he laughed, which made her laugh, which melted the icicles.
"Well, now that I'm injured," the Doctor began.
"Oh, you're not getting out of this," Rose told him. She clasped his shoulder, moved a little deeper into the curve of his arm. "We're going to get it right if-"
"-it kills me?"
"That's right. On one…"
8/25/2008