Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, then the below would be canon. Please hire me, RTD!
A/N: The below has been inspired by several people. First, a picture of David Tennant that was released several weeks ago (and is being used as the cover image here) when he recorded the Pets: Wild at Heart documentary-thing. All I could think of when I saw it was a DorkyDaddy!TenII and this story has been nudging at me to be written ever since.
Second, my father. While he is not the face of a national alien-fighting organization, he is the epitome of dorkiness and corniness (and also taught me the correct way to pronounce epitome) and any man (even a half-alien one) would be lucky to be anywhere near that dorky and corny.
And last, but certainly not least: snow days. I would be entering bills into QuickBooks instead of uploading this were it not for the 2+ feet we received.
. . .
The Epitome of Paternal Dorkdom
"Alright, John, why don't we try that last line again?" Pete called through the headset. "It's coming through a bit muffled out here."
Gritting his teeth, the Doctor nodded down at the script in his hand.
"And add some enthusiasm there, love," the perky PR girl - Brittany, he thought her name was, Rose was always better at remembering those pesky details, down to every barista at their favorite coffee joint - added. "You are the face of the Torchwood Institute. When people think Torchwood, they will think John Tyler. Make them believe in you, John. By believing in you, it means they believe in what we are doing here. Believe that we can create a better future." From the sound booth, the Doctor could see her sweeping her hands dramatically through the air. In his nine-hundred odd years, he had heard similar speeches made by megalomaniacs.
The Doctor nodded again. "OK."
"What's that, John?" Brittany chirped. With horror, the Doctor realized she had somehow procured her own headset. "Doesn't sound too believable to me!"
He twisted his face into something hopefully resembling a smile, made a thumbs-up sign at the glass. "OK."
Brittany beamed, making a thumbs-up right back.
Sadistic cow.
His dark-framed glasses - he needed actual glasses now, karma for showing off with his sexy specs through the years, he assumed - slipped to the end of his nose and the Doctor pushed them right with a sigh. He ran his finger down the paper, searching for the line that had been missing that fabulous John Tyler spark.
Mostly because the woman who gave him that spark was at home, nursing their newborn son.
More accurately still because the aforementioned woman had, despite the Doctor's many protestations, volunteered to record this promo a week before the due date of the aforementioned newborn son. Because Torchwood needs funding, Doctor (Torchwood had any number of fresh-faced recruits to swear up and down the irreproachability of their employer). Because Dad asked me to, Doctor, and you know he wouldn't if it wasn't important (he most certainly would, grandad-to-be or not the man had approved several dangerous assignments in the early months of Rose's pregnancy that had sent the Doctor into conniptions). Because we don't even know if nine months is the gestation period for a half-Time Lord baby (quarter-Time Lord and the Doctor's nine-month conjecture had been corroborated by the most distinguished medical minds Torchwood had to offer). Because any number of other, ridiculous reasons but mostly because she was Rose Tyler and pushing the envelope came as naturally to her as it did him. That was to say, as naturally as breathing.
It was a trait, apparently, inherited by their son who, on the day Rose was scheduled to waddle into the recording studio under her father and husband's watchful eyes, decided was as good a day as any to be born. In the ensuing chaos, none of the Torchwood bigwigs had had the guts enough to complain. Not only was their director now a proud grandad but anyone who had stopped off at the hospital with a bouquet of flowers or a stuffed teddy for the expectant parents had heard the then-face of Torchwood shouting clear down the hall that if he came near her with that thing again, she would not be held responsible for her actions.
The bigwigs had suggested a new face after that and Pete, crumbling to the pressure, had suggested his daughter's husband, John. Still high off the scent of James' fluff of hair and the feel of his son's tiny fingers wrapped his own large one, the Doctor had agreed.
Why had he agreed?
It's not like it couldn't have waited another few months. Torchwood wasn't about to go under anytime soon if his and Rose's paychecks were anything to go by. But here he was, under the jurisdiction of his father-in-law and a woman who wanted to beat enthusiasm out of him with a stick - preferably rapped against his impressively-shaped arse, he had spotted her looking - expounding on the virtues of a company that would tear a father away from his wife and newborn child. He wondered what Brittany's reaction would be if he added that to the script: at least she'd get the fervor out of him that she so craved.
Anything could happen. Jackie had been staying with them for the last couple of days and was, the Doctor grudgingly admitted once out of earshot, a competent caregiver while her tea was second-to-none. But mistakes still happened. They could get in a car accident on the way for extra nappies or James could suffocate in his cot or Rose could pass out and fall down the stairs (neither of them had been getting much sleep lately but at least an Instantaneous Biological Metacrisis could run on less) or some psychopath with a vendetta against Vitex could break in and murder them all.
He needed to be there. That was all there was to it.
Scooting the chair back as decisively as he could, despite the whiny squeak of the wheels against the waxed floor, only for the door to the sound booth to swing open.
Rose smiled at him. "Surprise." She lifted the baby carrier in one hand where the Doctor could see a few tiny fingers waving at him from the layer of blankets.
The Doctor's face lit up only to have it dazzled a second later by a camera flash.
"There!" trilled Brittany. "That's it! That is the face of Torchwood! Oh, this is going on the website!" (And, thought the Doctor rather uncharitably, the drawer of her bedside table.)
Setting down the plastic bag she held in her left hand Rose shut the door as courteously as possible - you understand, John and I really just want to enjoy as much time while James is still small - in Brittany's beaming face.
"Dad called me," she said in answer to his unspoken question. She handed the carrier over to the Doctor with the utmost care before sinking into the chair opposite his and attacking the second bag. The Doctor wasn't at all surprised to find it loaded with vinegar-y chips and a few strips of fried haddock; throughout her pregnancy, Rose had craved nothing but bananas dipped in all manner of strange concoctions - no need for a paternity test, eh, boss? Jake had teased and Rose had glared so fiercely at them both that the Doctor had turned away from her, punching random buttons on his phone and accidentally dialing Belgium in the process - and was keen to get the lingering taste of mayonnaise-coated plantains out of her mouth. "Said you were having trouble focusing."
"Can you blame me?" he answered Rose, cooing down at James who was occupied with trying to put his whole foot in his mouth. "I've been listening to her," he nodded at the closed door, "blabber on all day about enthusiasm and belief and lots of other italicized words, yes, I have. And it makes Daddy go a little bit crazy in the head. And being separated from you and Mummy makes him even crazier. But now you and Mummy are here so that makes him much, much happier. And now," the Doctor paused, arching an eyebrow when Rose coughed over a bite of chip, "now, Mummy is laughing at him for some unknown reason and pretending not to."
"God," Rose popped the rest of the chip into her mouth, still giggling, "do you even hear yourself?"
"What? What'd I say?"
"You're calling us Mummy and Daddy."
"We are Mummy and Daddy."
"You're speaking about yourself in the third person."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No, no, not at all," Rose licked her fingers clean, "'s just a bit . . . surreal, I s'pose. Like, on Satellite Five or Krop Tor or Canary Wharf did you ever think that we'd . . . that we'd be. . . ."
"The face of Torchwood?" teased the Doctor, striking a serious pose.
Rose's lips twitched but he spotted the tears shining behind her eyes. "Like this. Married and with a baby and . . . God, Doctor, we have a mortgage."
"And doors and carpets," the Doctor pointed out. Maneuvering James out of his carrier, the Doctor shifted him carefully to one arm, reaching for Rose's hand with the other. "I wouldn't trade it for the universe, Rose."
"I know. Sorry, 'm sorry, it's just hormones."
"Perfectly understandable." The Doctor stroked his thumb across her palm and she mimicked the gesture.
"'S just, you're such a good dad. I didn't know if . . . I mean, you told me once that you used to be a dad but I didn't - but he's been here a week and you've been such - such a dork."
"A dork?" echoed the Doctor. "Rose Tyler, I am not a dork."
Rose nodded, sniffling and laughing at the same time. "Yes, you are. You're, like, the epitome of Dorky Dad. I can just see it now. You're gonna be the one who tells all those corny jokes at the company picnics and embarrasses him in front of his friends. And then you'll have these ratty tees with cheesy sayings that I won't be able to get you to throw out and those'll be stuffed in some huge closet full of knick-knacks that James got you 'cause you have this insatiable need to document everything. You've always been a bit of a pack rat but, oh my God, Doctor, you're gonna be such a pack rat." Rose's voice cracked, whether from hormones or hilarity, the Doctor wasn't sure.
James twisted in his bundle of blankets and the Doctor hastily drew his hand from Rose's to cradle his son closer to his chest. "I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered," he said, once James was safely situated. In truth, he couldn't bring himself to be too offended; in her current state, Rose had obviously mistaken dorky for brilliant and suave.
He had, after all, attempted to film the labor: what could be more romantic than that? If Rose hadn't thrown a speculum at his head that had missed and smashed into the tripod instead, sending the whole thing crashing to the floor, then they would have had a lovely video of their son's entry into the world to share with friends and family for years to come. Though, to be fair, she had been in a significant amount of pain at the time and he had been playing with the zoom function rather than getting over here to hold my bloody hand. Besides, he had installed cameras in every room of the house, save for the loo, to make up for it. He wondered if Rose had noticed yet.
"Flattered," Rose answered immediately. She was smirking now. "You may be the Dorky Dad but you're married to the Hot Mum."
"That he is," said the Doctor proudly and he beamed as Rose leaned forward for a sweet, salt-and-vinegar kiss, James squeezed between them. When they released each other again, the Doctor's brow was furrowed in thought.
"Doctor," Rose nudged his chin with her nose, "you alright?"
He met her eyes, his own dark and grave. "Rose," he said, "I think we should get matching T-shirts."
. . .
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