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Story: Dancing Lessons
Author: Love! Slash! Angst!![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loveslashangst
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Captain Jack Harkness, Rose Tyler;
Rated: oh, so Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, violence, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did there would have been no parting of the ways, Rose would be happy and walking funny, and a love of tech isn't the only thing Nine and Jack would be sharing.
Spoilers: AU. If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you may be spoilered. I like to mess with canon.
Summary: By popular request: OT3 Nine/Jack/Rose. One of Jack's exes is out for a bit of revenge. Can the Doctor and Rose figure a way to rescue him before he has to pay the piper? Watch for fancy footwork, a bit of intrigue, occasional plot, and a large excuse for love and smut.
Fox Trot: Sometimes called the “Cadillac” of ballroom steps, this is a slow, gliding, elegant dance. Think Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Requires ultimate control on the man’s part and no small amount of trust and submission on the woman’s. (Let him lead.)
(Rose learns to let Nine lead. Jack likes to watch.)
“Fast song’s over,” says the Doctor with perfect calm. He gives Rose his best melting smile. “Mind if I cut in?”
Jack’s heart sinks. He knew this was coming. No way to be sure what kind of game the Doctor was up to back at the table, but at least Jack knew how to call this one. (He asked Rose if she wanted to see him make a Time Lord jealous in only four bars of music. They were halfway through bar three when he got that rough rap on the shoulder.) And though he knows this is the beginning of the end for him -- might as well go back to the TARDIS and start packing -- he can’t be angry. The Doctor and Rose are perfect for each other. Always have been.
He brings Rose’s hand to his lips. “It’s been fun.” (While it lasted.)
“It has.” Rose smiles at him. “Thank you, Jack.” She takes the Doctor’s hand. Jack doesn’t blame her for grinning. He would too, if he ever got to dance with the Doctor. No doubt the man leads strong and follows through. That kind of uber-masculine strength is hard to resist. (And, when paired with the Doctor’s savvy, courage, and... Oh, fuck it. The Doctor’s infected him with his damned angst. The truth is the man’s bloody hot and Jack would love to shag him -- or be shagged by him --- or a little of both -- and has since he first laid eyes on him... And Rose too, while they’re at it...)
There’s just something about them.
Jack squashes the disappointment. Keeps the dazzling grin plastered on his face all the way back to the table.
He makes eyes at that pretty little waitress just for the empty joy of having her grin goofily back at him. Oh, for the good old days when a willing bit of skirt (or trouser) was enough to turn his head and warm his bed. Now every woman (and every man too) is a pale shadow of the duo who stand out there on the dance floor. And his bed is damn cold. (Though really comfortable. The TARDIS gets lots of bonus points for having mattresses with just the right ratio of softness to support.)
By the time Jack sits, the music’s started up again. The Doctor smoothly takes Rose into his arms. (Fantastic posture, that man. Wonder if he’s studied dance or if such rigidly perfect form comes naturally due to that stick that’s occasionally lodged up his ass.) The Doctor’s casual look begins to melt into something more intense. Jack shakes his head, dourly amused. Why the hell don’t he and Rose just get on and get it over with?
That hurts to think about. Usually, Jack would laugh at the thought of two repressed, would-be lovers finally getting hot and heavy with each other. He’d flirt with them. Tease a bit. Maybe ask if he could watch. Or join. Or a little of both. Both would be wonderful. Better than wonderful...
The voice insinuates its way through the crowd. “Half love never appealed to me... If your heart never could yield to me...
He glances over. Does a double take. Is that Ella Fitzgerald? (Damn, the Doctor sure knows how to pick the days.)
“Then I'd rather have nothing at all...”
Jack must be a glutton for punishment, because he can’t help staring.
“All or nothing at all...”
The Doctor holds Rose firmly. One controlling arm at her back. One firm hand in hers. Smooth, gliding steps, like he was born on the dance floor. Slow, effortless turns. And all the while that stare. A gradual and hypnotic erosion from interested into intense. Gives Jack yummy shivers just to watch.
“If it's love there is no in between... Why begin, then cry for something that might have been... No, I rather have nothing at all...”
Rose is loving it. Her grin comes and goes (hard to be flip in the face of the Doctor’s intensity), but Jack can almost feel her arousal from here. She wants him. She’s always wanted him. Only an idiot would fail to notice. Only an idiot as big as the Doctor would fail to act on it. And Jack has no doubt that as soon as this dance is over, they’ll adjourn someplace quiet and the Doctor will very discretely fuck Rose within an inch of her sanity. (At least, that’s what Jack would do. Though he’d probably be much less picky and significantly less discreet... Some things are more fun noisy.)
“But, please, don't bring your lips so close to my cheek... Don't smile or I’ll be lost beyond recall...”
There. Right there. The Doctor murmurs something. Blushing, Rose replies. (What Jack wouldn’t give to hear them!) The Doctor’s arm tightens at her back. Possessive. It’s one of the things that actually makes him more than a little sexy: the Doctor loves people without apology or reservation.
Unfortunately, he also seems to love them without sex, which is both endearing and damn frustrating.
“The kiss in your eyes, the touch of your hand makes me weak...And my heart may grow dizzy and fall...”
Jack loses sight of them in the crowd for a moment. But the Doctor’s such a lovely, strapping lad and Rose’s long blonde locks (carefully styled to at least make an attempt to blend in) are hard to miss for long.
There. Other side of the dance floor. Jack stands to get a better look. Rose is transfixed in the Doctor’s arms. He’s giving her the look that Jack’s been fearing ever since he learned the pretty blonde he rescued from a barrage balloon during the blitz had a partner.
“And if I fell under the spell of your call...I would be caught in the undertow...”
“‘Available’, indeed,” Jack mutters, caught between bitterness and amusement. He sits. Raises his tumbler to his lips to drown his sorrows in thoroughly mediocre scotch. A cold shock of ice hits him in the nose. Empty. His glare melts into a laugh. “First my dance, then my girl, and now my drink.” He slams the glass down. “Serves me right for underestimating the Doctor.”
And though Jack neither notices nor recognizes the woman in the blue dress from her discrete position by the wall -- she takes care to maintain a screen of people between her and him at all times -- she sure as hell recognizes him.
**************
Rose is having the time of her life. To say the Doctor dances divinely would not only be a hopeless cliché, but it’d also be the truth. They HAVE to do this more often.
“So, you see,” sings the pretty black girl before the band, “I've got to say... No, no...”
The Doctor’s watching her with a look that either means he wants to kill her or strip her bare and have it off right here. (She’s hoping for the latter.) He’s been perfectly civil, polite even, but there’s a bit of danger to him tonight. It’s well hot. (She’s glad for the short sleeves and three-quarters skirt or she’d be even more sweltering than she already is under that stare.)
“All, or nothing at all....”
It’s a helluva song the Doctor chose. His hip is hard against hers, his steps all muscular thigh and taut arms. Sure, she’s about to lose circulation in the hand he’s holding, but she doesn’t care. She could follow him across the dance floor forever, he’s so smooth. She hasn’t noticed anyone else in the crowd for a good long time now. There must be other people, but either they’re very wisely clearing the way for her and the Doctor, or he’s so graceful that he avoids everyone. (And if he’s this graceful on the dance floor then just maybe... Oooooooh, now her knickers are damp from more than the sultry air and the exertion of three very intense dances.)
“All, or nothing at all...”
This is her chance. She should flirt. Make some comment about him being light on his feet. (Which he is.) Or fast on his feet. (Which he is!) Or something witty involving feet. If only she were better at punning. It always sounds so funny in her head and then comes out all wrong.
Jack would know what to say. He’s always so good at things like this. If only she could borrow that sweet tongue of his. (And sod it, now she’s thinking about Jack’s tongue. Not blushing! Not! Not! Not!)
“All, or nothing at all...”
She breaks the Doctor’s intense gaze for a moment. Glances at the table, where Jack stops flirting with the pretty waitress. He meets Rose’s eyes. Smiles. Salutes her with his refilled drink. Oooooooh. He has such a way of looking at a girl. She likes those blue eyes on her as she dances with the Doctor. Likes that he’s watching...
“Rose,” says the Doctor. He doesn’t have to shout; the quiet danger of that voice carries easily, even over the closing bars of the song. The hint of warning in those steely eyes is dead sexy, like dancing with the Devil himself.
“D-d-doctor.” If she hadn’t stuttered, she might’ve been able to pull off the casually confident tone she was going for. (Sexy. Why can’t she do sexy when it counts?)
He spins her out. Spins her back into his arms for the last note of the song. Bends so close that his cool breath teases her lips. (OhGodOhGodOhGodOHGOD he’s going to KISS her!) Pauses. Pulls back.
No! No! No!No!No!No!NO! He can’t! She grabs at him before he can slip away. Catches the leather lapels of his coat. Kisses him firmly on the mouth. Waits for him to respond.
When he doesn’t, she lets him go.
His face is unreadable. He looks at her for a very, very long time, even as the crowd applauds and the larger band begins a new tune. He’s gone all inscrutable, so she has the terrible fear he might burst out laughing or tell her she’s being silly or somesuch. (Oh God, was she really that wrong about him?)
When he speaks, the music drowns out the quiet question.
“What?” she shouts.
The Doctor bends to her ear. His breath is strangely cool. “Would you dance with me?”
She gives a nervous laugh. “What d’you think I’ve been doing?”
“No.” He pulls her close. Slides both arms around her in a very non-platonic, non just-friends way. “Rose Tyler. Would you--” his hips impact hers, a sweet jar that knocks the breath out of her, “DANCE with me?”
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Author: Love! Slash! Angst!
loveslashangst Characters: Ninth Doctor, Captain Jack Harkness, Rose Tyler;
Rated: oh, so Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, violence, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did there would have been no parting of the ways, Rose would be happy and walking funny, and a love of tech isn't the only thing Nine and Jack would be sharing.
Spoilers: AU. If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you may be spoilered. I like to mess with canon.
Summary: By popular request: OT3 Nine/Jack/Rose. One of Jack's exes is out for a bit of revenge. Can the Doctor and Rose figure a way to rescue him before he has to pay the piper? Watch for fancy footwork, a bit of intrigue, occasional plot, and a large excuse for love and smut.
Fox Trot: Sometimes called the “Cadillac” of ballroom steps, this is a slow, gliding, elegant dance. Think Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Requires ultimate control on the man’s part and no small amount of trust and submission on the woman’s. (Let him lead.)
(Rose learns to let Nine lead. Jack likes to watch.)
“Fast song’s over,” says the Doctor with perfect calm. He gives Rose his best melting smile. “Mind if I cut in?”
Jack’s heart sinks. He knew this was coming. No way to be sure what kind of game the Doctor was up to back at the table, but at least Jack knew how to call this one. (He asked Rose if she wanted to see him make a Time Lord jealous in only four bars of music. They were halfway through bar three when he got that rough rap on the shoulder.) And though he knows this is the beginning of the end for him -- might as well go back to the TARDIS and start packing -- he can’t be angry. The Doctor and Rose are perfect for each other. Always have been.
He brings Rose’s hand to his lips. “It’s been fun.” (While it lasted.)
“It has.” Rose smiles at him. “Thank you, Jack.” She takes the Doctor’s hand. Jack doesn’t blame her for grinning. He would too, if he ever got to dance with the Doctor. No doubt the man leads strong and follows through. That kind of uber-masculine strength is hard to resist. (And, when paired with the Doctor’s savvy, courage, and... Oh, fuck it. The Doctor’s infected him with his damned angst. The truth is the man’s bloody hot and Jack would love to shag him -- or be shagged by him --- or a little of both -- and has since he first laid eyes on him... And Rose too, while they’re at it...)
There’s just something about them.
Jack squashes the disappointment. Keeps the dazzling grin plastered on his face all the way back to the table.
He makes eyes at that pretty little waitress just for the empty joy of having her grin goofily back at him. Oh, for the good old days when a willing bit of skirt (or trouser) was enough to turn his head and warm his bed. Now every woman (and every man too) is a pale shadow of the duo who stand out there on the dance floor. And his bed is damn cold. (Though really comfortable. The TARDIS gets lots of bonus points for having mattresses with just the right ratio of softness to support.)
By the time Jack sits, the music’s started up again. The Doctor smoothly takes Rose into his arms. (Fantastic posture, that man. Wonder if he’s studied dance or if such rigidly perfect form comes naturally due to that stick that’s occasionally lodged up his ass.) The Doctor’s casual look begins to melt into something more intense. Jack shakes his head, dourly amused. Why the hell don’t he and Rose just get on and get it over with?
That hurts to think about. Usually, Jack would laugh at the thought of two repressed, would-be lovers finally getting hot and heavy with each other. He’d flirt with them. Tease a bit. Maybe ask if he could watch. Or join. Or a little of both. Both would be wonderful. Better than wonderful...
The voice insinuates its way through the crowd. “Half love never appealed to me... If your heart never could yield to me...
He glances over. Does a double take. Is that Ella Fitzgerald? (Damn, the Doctor sure knows how to pick the days.)
“Then I'd rather have nothing at all...”
Jack must be a glutton for punishment, because he can’t help staring.
“All or nothing at all...”
The Doctor holds Rose firmly. One controlling arm at her back. One firm hand in hers. Smooth, gliding steps, like he was born on the dance floor. Slow, effortless turns. And all the while that stare. A gradual and hypnotic erosion from interested into intense. Gives Jack yummy shivers just to watch.
“If it's love there is no in between... Why begin, then cry for something that might have been... No, I rather have nothing at all...”
Rose is loving it. Her grin comes and goes (hard to be flip in the face of the Doctor’s intensity), but Jack can almost feel her arousal from here. She wants him. She’s always wanted him. Only an idiot would fail to notice. Only an idiot as big as the Doctor would fail to act on it. And Jack has no doubt that as soon as this dance is over, they’ll adjourn someplace quiet and the Doctor will very discretely fuck Rose within an inch of her sanity. (At least, that’s what Jack would do. Though he’d probably be much less picky and significantly less discreet... Some things are more fun noisy.)
“But, please, don't bring your lips so close to my cheek... Don't smile or I’ll be lost beyond recall...”
There. Right there. The Doctor murmurs something. Blushing, Rose replies. (What Jack wouldn’t give to hear them!) The Doctor’s arm tightens at her back. Possessive. It’s one of the things that actually makes him more than a little sexy: the Doctor loves people without apology or reservation.
Unfortunately, he also seems to love them without sex, which is both endearing and damn frustrating.
“The kiss in your eyes, the touch of your hand makes me weak...And my heart may grow dizzy and fall...”
Jack loses sight of them in the crowd for a moment. But the Doctor’s such a lovely, strapping lad and Rose’s long blonde locks (carefully styled to at least make an attempt to blend in) are hard to miss for long.
There. Other side of the dance floor. Jack stands to get a better look. Rose is transfixed in the Doctor’s arms. He’s giving her the look that Jack’s been fearing ever since he learned the pretty blonde he rescued from a barrage balloon during the blitz had a partner.
“And if I fell under the spell of your call...I would be caught in the undertow...”
“‘Available’, indeed,” Jack mutters, caught between bitterness and amusement. He sits. Raises his tumbler to his lips to drown his sorrows in thoroughly mediocre scotch. A cold shock of ice hits him in the nose. Empty. His glare melts into a laugh. “First my dance, then my girl, and now my drink.” He slams the glass down. “Serves me right for underestimating the Doctor.”
And though Jack neither notices nor recognizes the woman in the blue dress from her discrete position by the wall -- she takes care to maintain a screen of people between her and him at all times -- she sure as hell recognizes him.
**************
Rose is having the time of her life. To say the Doctor dances divinely would not only be a hopeless cliché, but it’d also be the truth. They HAVE to do this more often.
“So, you see,” sings the pretty black girl before the band, “I've got to say... No, no...”
The Doctor’s watching her with a look that either means he wants to kill her or strip her bare and have it off right here. (She’s hoping for the latter.) He’s been perfectly civil, polite even, but there’s a bit of danger to him tonight. It’s well hot. (She’s glad for the short sleeves and three-quarters skirt or she’d be even more sweltering than she already is under that stare.)
“All, or nothing at all....”
It’s a helluva song the Doctor chose. His hip is hard against hers, his steps all muscular thigh and taut arms. Sure, she’s about to lose circulation in the hand he’s holding, but she doesn’t care. She could follow him across the dance floor forever, he’s so smooth. She hasn’t noticed anyone else in the crowd for a good long time now. There must be other people, but either they’re very wisely clearing the way for her and the Doctor, or he’s so graceful that he avoids everyone. (And if he’s this graceful on the dance floor then just maybe... Oooooooh, now her knickers are damp from more than the sultry air and the exertion of three very intense dances.)
“All, or nothing at all...”
This is her chance. She should flirt. Make some comment about him being light on his feet. (Which he is.) Or fast on his feet. (Which he is!) Or something witty involving feet. If only she were better at punning. It always sounds so funny in her head and then comes out all wrong.
Jack would know what to say. He’s always so good at things like this. If only she could borrow that sweet tongue of his. (And sod it, now she’s thinking about Jack’s tongue. Not blushing! Not! Not! Not!)
“All, or nothing at all...”
She breaks the Doctor’s intense gaze for a moment. Glances at the table, where Jack stops flirting with the pretty waitress. He meets Rose’s eyes. Smiles. Salutes her with his refilled drink. Oooooooh. He has such a way of looking at a girl. She likes those blue eyes on her as she dances with the Doctor. Likes that he’s watching...
“Rose,” says the Doctor. He doesn’t have to shout; the quiet danger of that voice carries easily, even over the closing bars of the song. The hint of warning in those steely eyes is dead sexy, like dancing with the Devil himself.
“D-d-doctor.” If she hadn’t stuttered, she might’ve been able to pull off the casually confident tone she was going for. (Sexy. Why can’t she do sexy when it counts?)
He spins her out. Spins her back into his arms for the last note of the song. Bends so close that his cool breath teases her lips. (OhGodOhGodOhGodOHGOD he’s going to KISS her!) Pauses. Pulls back.
No! No! No!No!No!No!NO! He can’t! She grabs at him before he can slip away. Catches the leather lapels of his coat. Kisses him firmly on the mouth. Waits for him to respond.
When he doesn’t, she lets him go.
His face is unreadable. He looks at her for a very, very long time, even as the crowd applauds and the larger band begins a new tune. He’s gone all inscrutable, so she has the terrible fear he might burst out laughing or tell her she’s being silly or somesuch. (Oh God, was she really that wrong about him?)
When he speaks, the music drowns out the quiet question.
“What?” she shouts.
The Doctor bends to her ear. His breath is strangely cool. “Would you dance with me?”
She gives a nervous laugh. “What d’you think I’ve been doing?”
“No.” He pulls her close. Slides both arms around her in a very non-platonic, non just-friends way. “Rose Tyler. Would you--” his hips impact hers, a sweet jar that knocks the breath out of her, “DANCE with me?”
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