Fic: "Mistaken Identities" (2/2) - Nine/Jack/Rose | PG
Title: Mistaken Identities (2/2)
Author: aibhinn
Written for: honorh
Rating: PG
Pairing: Nine/Rose/Jack
Summary: A case of mistaken identity puts Jack and the Doctor smack in the middle of preparation for a coronation. Rose is amused, to put it mildly.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making any money. Please not to sue me.
Author's note: Written for the 2009 OT3 Ficathon. It's a bit late-in the way the TARDIS is a bit bigger than it looks from the outside. honorh, I apologize. Mea culpa. *grovels* I hope you enjoy it anyway!
Link to Part 1
Jack and the Doctor followed a royal servant (who had all the attitude royal servants usually did, Jack noted) into an enormous room in the Royal Residence-more like a dance studio than a suite or even a bedroom. It was at least twenty meters long by ten meters wide, high-ceilinged with lots of natural light from a bank of windows along one of the short walls and a pair of skylights above, and-he blinked-one whole wall made of fabric-covered panels that flipped around to reveal mirrors when the servant pressed a button on the wall.
"It is Her Incipient Majesty's fondest hope that this room will be sufficient for your choreographing needs, Mr Eslatt," the servant said, with the distinct overtone that Her Incipient Majesty had better things to hope for than a slave's needs. For they were slaves, or at least impersonating them; Jack had worked that out on their way here. "If you'll come with me, Mr Comstad," the servant went on, "Her Incipient Majesty's dressmakers have their workroom in the East Wing of the Residence. I will show you there."
Jack shot a look at the Doctor. Were they trying to separate the two of them, or did the two workshops just happen to be that far away from each other? In any case, it would make escape twice as hard if the two of them weren't together. And when would Rose get here?
But the Doctor had things well in hand. "Oh, this will do," the Doctor said in a tone of voice Jack had never heard. Almost . . . fluting. "I need nothing more than a drawing table, some sketch paper, and some charcoal and pastels for the moment." He fluttered a hand languidly.
"All those things can be found in the dressmakers' workroom," the servant said, a little impatiently.
"Oh, but we couldn't possibly be separated!" the Doctor said, wide-eyed with feigned horror as he reached for Jack's hand. Jack bit his lip to keep from sputtering with laughter. "We work together, you see. How can I know what types of costumes will best complement his dance unless I watch him create it?"
"You are to be creating livery as well," the servant reminded him.
The Doctor waved that away with another indolent gesture. "Livery is hardly a challenge. I can design that while he's in the early stages of his creative process. Once he's got the choreography set and is teaching it to the dancers, then I can begin the designs for their costumes." He fixed the servant with a look and placed a hand on his hip, pushing his jacket out of the way to do so. "Creativity cannot be commanded," he said firmly. "You must allow our Muses to be . . . " He circled his hand as though trying to think of the word. ". . . wooed and placated in order for us to Create Art, and separating us simply won't do."
Wooed and placated?? Jack was forced to fake another coughing fit, lest he lose it altogether. Who's this guy, and what's he done with the Doctor?
"So just bring in a drawing table, some pastels and charcoal, and a good stack of sketch paper, and I'll set up in a corner, right out of the way," the Doctor finished. He flashed a sunny smile at the servant. "And then, when Lady Rose arrives, it'll be easy for you to direct her to us!"
The servant gave the Doctor a long look, then glanced at Jack. Jack raised his eyebrows as though to say 'so get on with it', and had the satisfaction of seeing the servant's face redden-whether with anger or with sudden understanding of the relationship that the two of them were projecting, Jack wasn't sure. "I shall arrange it," the servant said, which surprised Jack a bit; he'd expected the man to make some excuse, or at best tell them he had to clear it with someone else. Wonder if he was told, 'Give them anything they want'? Jack thought. Certainly, if the Doctor was correct, the two men they were impersonating should have merited that kind of response. With the smallest possible bow, the servant turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him with a click.
Jack dissolved into the quietest laughing fit he'd ever had, as the Doctor folded his arms across his chest and waited with ill-concealed impatience. "What?" he asked acidly. "Getting out of here will be near-impossible if we're separated."
Jack waved a hand in a 'Gimme a minute' gesture as he forced himself back under control. "I know," he said at last. "I know. But you did the thing-" He cocked his hip and rested a hand on it, waving a hand in a languid, foppish way while affecting a supercilious expression. The Doctor glared some more.
They were interrupted by three servants bringing in a drawing table and chair, and a fourth with a box that Jack assumed contained the paper and drawing tools the Doctor had requested. "Right over there," the Doctor said, pointing towards the wall of windows. "In the corner, where I'll be out of the way."
He hadn't gone quite as foppish as he had before, so Jack decided to put his two cents' in. "Don't you know you're never in my way, sweetheart?" he said, wrapping his arm around the Time Lord's waist under his jacket. Two of the three servants left quickly and unobtrusively, but the fourth-the one who'd carried the paper-hung back just long enough to throw Jack a wink before he, too, disappeared through the door, shutting it quietly behind him. Jack grinned.
"I think we've become a pair of role models," he told the Doctor.
The Doctor hmphed. "We'd better make a show of starting our assignments," he said. "At least until Rose gets here. Once we know she's safe, we can try to work out how to get back to the TARDIS."
"What, you're actually going to design some livery?" Jack asked.
"I'll make an attempt at it, at least," the Doctor said, walking behind the drawing table, which faced away from the windows, and adjusting the chair to a proper height for him. "It'd look funny if I didn't even have any discards." Jack shook his head disbelievingly, and the Doctor said again, "What?"
"You. Sitting down to draw."
"That's design, thanks." The Doctor pulled out three long, thin boxes-those must be the pastels and charcoal he asked for-and a stack of sketch paper. "Good," he said, approvingly. "There's loads of paper here. Oh, and a list-" He held it up to the light, brow furrowed as he read. "Livery for three hundred, one hundred women and two hundred men, plus twenty-five of Her Incipient Majesty's handmaidens. Twenty of the two hundred men work in the kitchens, so their livery should include proper aprons and chefs' hats. Costumes for Jason Eslatt's dancers-no more than fifty, mind, so keep that in mind when you're doing your choreography, Jack-and three ball gowns for Her Incipient Majesty. That makes sense, she'll have to show up at the balls for each of the different factions, and she won't want to wear the same thing to all of them. Nothing for her coronation-of course, she'll be wearing coronation robes for that, so . . . ."
"Hold it, Doc," Jack interrupted. His head was spinning. "Doing my choreography? You're not honestly suggesting we stay for this shindig, are you?"
The Doctor glanced up at him, his eyebrows rising. "Why wouldn't we?" he asked.
"Why wouldn't we?" Jack repeated blankly. "Because we're slaves here, for one thing! Because I know about as much about choreography as you do about fashion design! Because they'll have Rose as a hostage if we don't do the kind of job they're expecting-and don't forget, they know what Comstad and Eslatt's work is like, and we don't!"
The Doctor sniffed. "Never known you to back away from a challenge before."
"I-what?" Jack stared at the Doctor, stunned.
"You've taken dancing-I know you have, it's part of the Time Agency's standard training. I bet you know at least two popular dances from each of the major eras in human history, including this one."
"Four," Jack admitted. "So?"
The Doctor leant forward. "Anyone who has as much training as you do-in self-defence as well as dance-and as much creativity as you have can choreograph something reasonably good. Anyone. Especially when you have a whole week before it has to be performed."
A spark of defiance caused Jack to retort, "Reasonably good? I can come up with something fantastic if I set my mind to it."
"If you say so," the Doctor said off-handedly. "Though I will admit you got the easier of the two jobs. All you have to do is come up with one performance. I have to design over three hundred outfits."
"Bullshit." Jack's competitive streak had been tweaked. He sauntered towards the Doctor, who sat back now, arms crossed, twisting back and forth in his revolving chair. "You have to design three forms of livery, one set of dance costumes, and three gowns. Working by yourself, I might add, so you don't have to rely on or wait for anyone else, and with the advantage of not needing to sleep as much as I do. Whereas I have to decide on music, come up with a complicated and attractive dance for multiple dancers-something worthy of a coronation ceremony-and then teach it to those selfsame dancers, who may or may not have had the kind of training I need them to have, and make sure they're ready to perform it by the end of the week. I'd say I have the harder of the two jobs, myself."
"That so?"
"Yeah."
The Doctor cocked his head to one side. "Well. We'll just have to see what Her Incipient Majesty thinks, won't we?"
The two men looked each other in the eyes for a long moment, then grinned simultaneously.
"You're on," Jack said.
***
Rose had to keep herself from running through the doors into the room the servant led her to, she was so glad to be seeing the boys again. She forced herself to walk sedately, though, and waited for the servant to open the door for her before she entered, though she was unable to control the broad grin that nearly split her face in two. They were here, they were safe, the three of them weren't having to run for their lives, and now they could . . . .
She stopped, staring at the images before her: Jack humming to himself as he repeated the same dance moves over and over again-or, no, not the same ones, but very nearly-as the Doctor sat at a drawing table, forehead creased in concentration as he apparently sketched away. A growing pile of balled-up pieces of paper, probably rejects, pooled around the base of his high bar-stool-esque chair, and a smaller pile of papers was visible on the lower, flat table to his left. Neither of them seemed to see her.
"Lady Rose," the servant announced, and discreetly left, closing the door behind him. Both men looked up and broke into such identically delighted smiles that she felt her shock melt away, at least a little. Jack ran straight for her and caught her up in a twirling hug that made her laugh, and then kissed her so soundly that she had no breath left to laugh any more. And when he'd put her down, there was the Doctor, who enfolded her in a bear hug before kissing her just as thoroughly as Jack had.
It took her a moment to recover from the kisses-made more difficult by the fact that each of her boys had their arm around her-but finally she was able to say, "What are you two doing?"
"Greeting you," Jack said reasonably. He bent to nuzzle at her neck. "Mmm, you smell like the bazaar, all cinnamon-and-musk. Did you buy some perfume? Will you wear it again when we've got a little more privacy?"
"Since when do you worry about privacy?" Rose asked.
"Not from the Doctor," Jack explained, catching her glance at the Time Lord. "From the servants. They've been coming in asking if we need anything every half hour on the dot. Three times since they delivered the table. I don't trust them not to walk in on us-and you know damn good and well it'd take us more than thirty minutes."
Rose giggled, and the Doctor rolled his eyes. "So we've been working to throw them off the scent," the Doctor said, picking up the thread of the explanation. "Designing and choreographing, respectively. They seem to be pretty pleased with us. I sent off the designs for the livery for the ordinary servants already, since they've got almost three hundred of those to make in a week, and I've nearly finished the designs for the kitchen staff. The costumes for the dancers will be last, of course, since Jack will have to finish the choreography before I can start-"
"Nearly there," Jack said, wounded.
"-but the rest of it should be reasonably easy. And once the designs and choreography are done, we're laughing," the Doctor finished.
Rose leaned back just a bit so she could look both men in the eye. "You've got some kind of competition cooked up again, haven't you?" she said.
"No! Well, not exactly," Jack amended, looking over at the Doctor.
"Not exactly?"
"We're not really competing," the Doctor explained, shooting Jack a Look, "but we decided we'd see if we really could do this stuff. Of course, I knew I could design just fine, since I've done it before-"
"Really?" Rose interrupted, raising her eyebrows. "Because I was wanderin' round the wardrobe not long ago, and I found some really weird stuff. Is there really an appropriate venue for a multicoloured jacket with question marks on?"
"Twentieth century comic book convention," Jack answered promptly. "He could go as the Riddler."
"When you've quite finished," the Doctor said loudly and firmly over his partners' giggles. "We thought it would be nice to try our hand at something new, that's all."
Rose cocked her head and looked up at him, not buying it. "There's something in history that says we're supposed to be here, isn't there?" she said.
"No," he answered quickly. She fixed him with a look that said Pull the other one, and he amended, "All right. It's possible that we're the ones mentioned in the histories. A few things were the same."
"Such as?" Rose couldn't help but ask.
He smiled at her. "A beautiful blonde lady, when the real Lady Rose is actually dark-haired, and a pair of slaves who walked like free men-that means unshackled-and who wore the most avant-garde clothing." He glanced at Jack. "Apparently, a good portion of the women in the Royal Residence fell hard for the younger one."
The famous Jack-the-lad grin flashed. "Good to know I haven't lost my touch, even if I'm off the market."
Rose grinned and tucked herself a little tighter against Jack's side. "All right," she told the Doctor. "Fair enough. But if we're going to stay here, I'm going to play my role to the hilt. And you know what that means."
The Doctor sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out another credit chit. Rose shook her head. "Oh, no," she said. "You get to design a gown for me."
The Doctor blinked, then a smile spread like dawn across his face. "Fantastic!"
***
The singing and dancing-unchoreographed this late in the day-were still going on when the three of them made their slow, tired way back into the TARDIS. They'd slipped away as the new Empress entered her third ball in the last of the gowns the Doctor had designed for her. Rose's echoed the design subtly: one-shouldered, like the Empress's, and with a skirt that ended just an inch above the floor, perfect for dancing. But there the resemblance ended. Rose's gown did not have the scandalously plunging neckline of the Empress's, nor was it covered in crystals and sequins until it seemed the wearer was surrounded with a halo of sparkling light. Instead, Rose's gown was deep red, with a fitted bodice and an elegant A-line skirt, and accented by a choker of rubies that perfectly matched her gown. Her creamy skin glowed on its own, the effect of the gown's colour and Rose's own delight, not to mention the hours she'd spent being pampered by the Empress's servants over the past week.
"Well," she said, carefully negotiating the stairs down from the Royal Residence. "That was an experience. Hope Mum didn't try to phone; I left my mobile in the TARDIS."
Jack shrugged. He looked very well too, in a dinner jacket of the local style and a pale, pale blue shirt with darker blue tie and cummerbund. His eyes picked up the colour and seemed brighter than usual. "You can call her any time," he said logically; "it's a time machine. I do have to say, Doc, I think you outdid yourself. I'll never dismiss your skills as a designer again."
The Doctor, in a shirt that was a slightly darker blue than Jack's, though the rest of his outfit was near identical, flashed Jack a smile. "Thanks," he said. "You did us proud with the dance, too. Who'd have imagined ballet, swing, traditional T'roch war dance, and-what was that fourth one?"
"Pavane," Jack said a bit smugly. "Earth, Western Europe, Middle Ages."
"Ah, yes. Who'd've thought the four of those would blend so well? Good idea setting it to music by a local composer, too; I think the Empress was doubly impressed by that."
Jack laughed. "Luck," he admitted. "I was listening to the library of music they had handy, and that one just appealed."
"Still, good call." The Doctor wrapped an arm around Rose's shoulders, and the other around Jack's waist. "Not a bad week, over all. And everybody lives!"
"I think we should get a move on, though," Rose said. "Don't want to be there after the festivities are over." The men gave her a curious look, and she elaborated, "The Empress gets her choice of partners for the night, and she was looking at Jack with a kind of expression I've only ever seen on cats watching birds on the estate."
Jack's expression became overly casual. "Really? I might have to see what that means," he began, and made believe to turn back.
The Doctor's arm tightened and pushed him towards the TARDIS, which was now visible in the moonlight-the bazaar had ended that very day, and the field in front of the Royal Residence was oddly bare. "If that's what you want, my lad, there's plenty of it where we're going."
"Promise?" Rose asked, tongue mischievously between her teeth.
"Oh, absolutely."
Author: aibhinn
Written for: honorh
Rating: PG
Pairing: Nine/Rose/Jack
Summary: A case of mistaken identity puts Jack and the Doctor smack in the middle of preparation for a coronation. Rose is amused, to put it mildly.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making any money. Please not to sue me.
Author's note: Written for the 2009 OT3 Ficathon. It's a bit late-in the way the TARDIS is a bit bigger than it looks from the outside. honorh, I apologize. Mea culpa. *grovels* I hope you enjoy it anyway!
Link to Part 1
Jack and the Doctor followed a royal servant (who had all the attitude royal servants usually did, Jack noted) into an enormous room in the Royal Residence-more like a dance studio than a suite or even a bedroom. It was at least twenty meters long by ten meters wide, high-ceilinged with lots of natural light from a bank of windows along one of the short walls and a pair of skylights above, and-he blinked-one whole wall made of fabric-covered panels that flipped around to reveal mirrors when the servant pressed a button on the wall.
"It is Her Incipient Majesty's fondest hope that this room will be sufficient for your choreographing needs, Mr Eslatt," the servant said, with the distinct overtone that Her Incipient Majesty had better things to hope for than a slave's needs. For they were slaves, or at least impersonating them; Jack had worked that out on their way here. "If you'll come with me, Mr Comstad," the servant went on, "Her Incipient Majesty's dressmakers have their workroom in the East Wing of the Residence. I will show you there."
Jack shot a look at the Doctor. Were they trying to separate the two of them, or did the two workshops just happen to be that far away from each other? In any case, it would make escape twice as hard if the two of them weren't together. And when would Rose get here?
But the Doctor had things well in hand. "Oh, this will do," the Doctor said in a tone of voice Jack had never heard. Almost . . . fluting. "I need nothing more than a drawing table, some sketch paper, and some charcoal and pastels for the moment." He fluttered a hand languidly.
"All those things can be found in the dressmakers' workroom," the servant said, a little impatiently.
"Oh, but we couldn't possibly be separated!" the Doctor said, wide-eyed with feigned horror as he reached for Jack's hand. Jack bit his lip to keep from sputtering with laughter. "We work together, you see. How can I know what types of costumes will best complement his dance unless I watch him create it?"
"You are to be creating livery as well," the servant reminded him.
The Doctor waved that away with another indolent gesture. "Livery is hardly a challenge. I can design that while he's in the early stages of his creative process. Once he's got the choreography set and is teaching it to the dancers, then I can begin the designs for their costumes." He fixed the servant with a look and placed a hand on his hip, pushing his jacket out of the way to do so. "Creativity cannot be commanded," he said firmly. "You must allow our Muses to be . . . " He circled his hand as though trying to think of the word. ". . . wooed and placated in order for us to Create Art, and separating us simply won't do."
Wooed and placated?? Jack was forced to fake another coughing fit, lest he lose it altogether. Who's this guy, and what's he done with the Doctor?
"So just bring in a drawing table, some pastels and charcoal, and a good stack of sketch paper, and I'll set up in a corner, right out of the way," the Doctor finished. He flashed a sunny smile at the servant. "And then, when Lady Rose arrives, it'll be easy for you to direct her to us!"
The servant gave the Doctor a long look, then glanced at Jack. Jack raised his eyebrows as though to say 'so get on with it', and had the satisfaction of seeing the servant's face redden-whether with anger or with sudden understanding of the relationship that the two of them were projecting, Jack wasn't sure. "I shall arrange it," the servant said, which surprised Jack a bit; he'd expected the man to make some excuse, or at best tell them he had to clear it with someone else. Wonder if he was told, 'Give them anything they want'? Jack thought. Certainly, if the Doctor was correct, the two men they were impersonating should have merited that kind of response. With the smallest possible bow, the servant turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him with a click.
Jack dissolved into the quietest laughing fit he'd ever had, as the Doctor folded his arms across his chest and waited with ill-concealed impatience. "What?" he asked acidly. "Getting out of here will be near-impossible if we're separated."
Jack waved a hand in a 'Gimme a minute' gesture as he forced himself back under control. "I know," he said at last. "I know. But you did the thing-" He cocked his hip and rested a hand on it, waving a hand in a languid, foppish way while affecting a supercilious expression. The Doctor glared some more.
They were interrupted by three servants bringing in a drawing table and chair, and a fourth with a box that Jack assumed contained the paper and drawing tools the Doctor had requested. "Right over there," the Doctor said, pointing towards the wall of windows. "In the corner, where I'll be out of the way."
He hadn't gone quite as foppish as he had before, so Jack decided to put his two cents' in. "Don't you know you're never in my way, sweetheart?" he said, wrapping his arm around the Time Lord's waist under his jacket. Two of the three servants left quickly and unobtrusively, but the fourth-the one who'd carried the paper-hung back just long enough to throw Jack a wink before he, too, disappeared through the door, shutting it quietly behind him. Jack grinned.
"I think we've become a pair of role models," he told the Doctor.
The Doctor hmphed. "We'd better make a show of starting our assignments," he said. "At least until Rose gets here. Once we know she's safe, we can try to work out how to get back to the TARDIS."
"What, you're actually going to design some livery?" Jack asked.
"I'll make an attempt at it, at least," the Doctor said, walking behind the drawing table, which faced away from the windows, and adjusting the chair to a proper height for him. "It'd look funny if I didn't even have any discards." Jack shook his head disbelievingly, and the Doctor said again, "What?"
"You. Sitting down to draw."
"That's design, thanks." The Doctor pulled out three long, thin boxes-those must be the pastels and charcoal he asked for-and a stack of sketch paper. "Good," he said, approvingly. "There's loads of paper here. Oh, and a list-" He held it up to the light, brow furrowed as he read. "Livery for three hundred, one hundred women and two hundred men, plus twenty-five of Her Incipient Majesty's handmaidens. Twenty of the two hundred men work in the kitchens, so their livery should include proper aprons and chefs' hats. Costumes for Jason Eslatt's dancers-no more than fifty, mind, so keep that in mind when you're doing your choreography, Jack-and three ball gowns for Her Incipient Majesty. That makes sense, she'll have to show up at the balls for each of the different factions, and she won't want to wear the same thing to all of them. Nothing for her coronation-of course, she'll be wearing coronation robes for that, so . . . ."
"Hold it, Doc," Jack interrupted. His head was spinning. "Doing my choreography? You're not honestly suggesting we stay for this shindig, are you?"
The Doctor glanced up at him, his eyebrows rising. "Why wouldn't we?" he asked.
"Why wouldn't we?" Jack repeated blankly. "Because we're slaves here, for one thing! Because I know about as much about choreography as you do about fashion design! Because they'll have Rose as a hostage if we don't do the kind of job they're expecting-and don't forget, they know what Comstad and Eslatt's work is like, and we don't!"
The Doctor sniffed. "Never known you to back away from a challenge before."
"I-what?" Jack stared at the Doctor, stunned.
"You've taken dancing-I know you have, it's part of the Time Agency's standard training. I bet you know at least two popular dances from each of the major eras in human history, including this one."
"Four," Jack admitted. "So?"
The Doctor leant forward. "Anyone who has as much training as you do-in self-defence as well as dance-and as much creativity as you have can choreograph something reasonably good. Anyone. Especially when you have a whole week before it has to be performed."
A spark of defiance caused Jack to retort, "Reasonably good? I can come up with something fantastic if I set my mind to it."
"If you say so," the Doctor said off-handedly. "Though I will admit you got the easier of the two jobs. All you have to do is come up with one performance. I have to design over three hundred outfits."
"Bullshit." Jack's competitive streak had been tweaked. He sauntered towards the Doctor, who sat back now, arms crossed, twisting back and forth in his revolving chair. "You have to design three forms of livery, one set of dance costumes, and three gowns. Working by yourself, I might add, so you don't have to rely on or wait for anyone else, and with the advantage of not needing to sleep as much as I do. Whereas I have to decide on music, come up with a complicated and attractive dance for multiple dancers-something worthy of a coronation ceremony-and then teach it to those selfsame dancers, who may or may not have had the kind of training I need them to have, and make sure they're ready to perform it by the end of the week. I'd say I have the harder of the two jobs, myself."
"That so?"
"Yeah."
The Doctor cocked his head to one side. "Well. We'll just have to see what Her Incipient Majesty thinks, won't we?"
The two men looked each other in the eyes for a long moment, then grinned simultaneously.
"You're on," Jack said.
***
Rose had to keep herself from running through the doors into the room the servant led her to, she was so glad to be seeing the boys again. She forced herself to walk sedately, though, and waited for the servant to open the door for her before she entered, though she was unable to control the broad grin that nearly split her face in two. They were here, they were safe, the three of them weren't having to run for their lives, and now they could . . . .
She stopped, staring at the images before her: Jack humming to himself as he repeated the same dance moves over and over again-or, no, not the same ones, but very nearly-as the Doctor sat at a drawing table, forehead creased in concentration as he apparently sketched away. A growing pile of balled-up pieces of paper, probably rejects, pooled around the base of his high bar-stool-esque chair, and a smaller pile of papers was visible on the lower, flat table to his left. Neither of them seemed to see her.
"Lady Rose," the servant announced, and discreetly left, closing the door behind him. Both men looked up and broke into such identically delighted smiles that she felt her shock melt away, at least a little. Jack ran straight for her and caught her up in a twirling hug that made her laugh, and then kissed her so soundly that she had no breath left to laugh any more. And when he'd put her down, there was the Doctor, who enfolded her in a bear hug before kissing her just as thoroughly as Jack had.
It took her a moment to recover from the kisses-made more difficult by the fact that each of her boys had their arm around her-but finally she was able to say, "What are you two doing?"
"Greeting you," Jack said reasonably. He bent to nuzzle at her neck. "Mmm, you smell like the bazaar, all cinnamon-and-musk. Did you buy some perfume? Will you wear it again when we've got a little more privacy?"
"Since when do you worry about privacy?" Rose asked.
"Not from the Doctor," Jack explained, catching her glance at the Time Lord. "From the servants. They've been coming in asking if we need anything every half hour on the dot. Three times since they delivered the table. I don't trust them not to walk in on us-and you know damn good and well it'd take us more than thirty minutes."
Rose giggled, and the Doctor rolled his eyes. "So we've been working to throw them off the scent," the Doctor said, picking up the thread of the explanation. "Designing and choreographing, respectively. They seem to be pretty pleased with us. I sent off the designs for the livery for the ordinary servants already, since they've got almost three hundred of those to make in a week, and I've nearly finished the designs for the kitchen staff. The costumes for the dancers will be last, of course, since Jack will have to finish the choreography before I can start-"
"Nearly there," Jack said, wounded.
"-but the rest of it should be reasonably easy. And once the designs and choreography are done, we're laughing," the Doctor finished.
Rose leaned back just a bit so she could look both men in the eye. "You've got some kind of competition cooked up again, haven't you?" she said.
"No! Well, not exactly," Jack amended, looking over at the Doctor.
"Not exactly?"
"We're not really competing," the Doctor explained, shooting Jack a Look, "but we decided we'd see if we really could do this stuff. Of course, I knew I could design just fine, since I've done it before-"
"Really?" Rose interrupted, raising her eyebrows. "Because I was wanderin' round the wardrobe not long ago, and I found some really weird stuff. Is there really an appropriate venue for a multicoloured jacket with question marks on?"
"Twentieth century comic book convention," Jack answered promptly. "He could go as the Riddler."
"When you've quite finished," the Doctor said loudly and firmly over his partners' giggles. "We thought it would be nice to try our hand at something new, that's all."
Rose cocked her head and looked up at him, not buying it. "There's something in history that says we're supposed to be here, isn't there?" she said.
"No," he answered quickly. She fixed him with a look that said Pull the other one, and he amended, "All right. It's possible that we're the ones mentioned in the histories. A few things were the same."
"Such as?" Rose couldn't help but ask.
He smiled at her. "A beautiful blonde lady, when the real Lady Rose is actually dark-haired, and a pair of slaves who walked like free men-that means unshackled-and who wore the most avant-garde clothing." He glanced at Jack. "Apparently, a good portion of the women in the Royal Residence fell hard for the younger one."
The famous Jack-the-lad grin flashed. "Good to know I haven't lost my touch, even if I'm off the market."
Rose grinned and tucked herself a little tighter against Jack's side. "All right," she told the Doctor. "Fair enough. But if we're going to stay here, I'm going to play my role to the hilt. And you know what that means."
The Doctor sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out another credit chit. Rose shook her head. "Oh, no," she said. "You get to design a gown for me."
The Doctor blinked, then a smile spread like dawn across his face. "Fantastic!"
***
The singing and dancing-unchoreographed this late in the day-were still going on when the three of them made their slow, tired way back into the TARDIS. They'd slipped away as the new Empress entered her third ball in the last of the gowns the Doctor had designed for her. Rose's echoed the design subtly: one-shouldered, like the Empress's, and with a skirt that ended just an inch above the floor, perfect for dancing. But there the resemblance ended. Rose's gown did not have the scandalously plunging neckline of the Empress's, nor was it covered in crystals and sequins until it seemed the wearer was surrounded with a halo of sparkling light. Instead, Rose's gown was deep red, with a fitted bodice and an elegant A-line skirt, and accented by a choker of rubies that perfectly matched her gown. Her creamy skin glowed on its own, the effect of the gown's colour and Rose's own delight, not to mention the hours she'd spent being pampered by the Empress's servants over the past week.
"Well," she said, carefully negotiating the stairs down from the Royal Residence. "That was an experience. Hope Mum didn't try to phone; I left my mobile in the TARDIS."
Jack shrugged. He looked very well too, in a dinner jacket of the local style and a pale, pale blue shirt with darker blue tie and cummerbund. His eyes picked up the colour and seemed brighter than usual. "You can call her any time," he said logically; "it's a time machine. I do have to say, Doc, I think you outdid yourself. I'll never dismiss your skills as a designer again."
The Doctor, in a shirt that was a slightly darker blue than Jack's, though the rest of his outfit was near identical, flashed Jack a smile. "Thanks," he said. "You did us proud with the dance, too. Who'd have imagined ballet, swing, traditional T'roch war dance, and-what was that fourth one?"
"Pavane," Jack said a bit smugly. "Earth, Western Europe, Middle Ages."
"Ah, yes. Who'd've thought the four of those would blend so well? Good idea setting it to music by a local composer, too; I think the Empress was doubly impressed by that."
Jack laughed. "Luck," he admitted. "I was listening to the library of music they had handy, and that one just appealed."
"Still, good call." The Doctor wrapped an arm around Rose's shoulders, and the other around Jack's waist. "Not a bad week, over all. And everybody lives!"
"I think we should get a move on, though," Rose said. "Don't want to be there after the festivities are over." The men gave her a curious look, and she elaborated, "The Empress gets her choice of partners for the night, and she was looking at Jack with a kind of expression I've only ever seen on cats watching birds on the estate."
Jack's expression became overly casual. "Really? I might have to see what that means," he began, and made believe to turn back.
The Doctor's arm tightened and pushed him towards the TARDIS, which was now visible in the moonlight-the bazaar had ended that very day, and the field in front of the Royal Residence was oddly bare. "If that's what you want, my lad, there's plenty of it where we're going."
"Promise?" Rose asked, tongue mischievously between her teeth.
"Oh, absolutely."