You Can Learn To Do It
Disclaimer: Neither the characters nor the words the Doctor quotes belong to me.
--
"If I can learn to do it," he tells her, his face the picture of sincerity, "You can learn to do it."
They are in the middle of a draughty, deserted ballroom in an 19th century mansion-house. Early evening sunlight streams through the windows and dust springs up from the floor to float lazily in the air alongside the two dancers. A hundred and fifty years ago, this room had been the hub of activity for all the house and its guests, but today it stands empty and forgotten.
It turns out that, while she can certainly hold her own when it comes to stepping in time with him, Rose doesn't actually know how to foxtrot or tango or English country dance. As a result, the Doctor has whisked her off to the present day to practise in the very ballroom she will be dancing in tonight, more than a century in the past.
If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it…
Rose's feet stop mid-step, and the Doctor's absent-minded humming of a Henry Purcell composition peters out. "Hold on," she says, tugging her hand out of his to point at him accusingly. "Isn't that from Anastasia?"
With his now-free hand, the Doctor tugs on his ear. "Perhaps." The tip of said ear flushes pink. "A little bit. Oh, alright, but it doesn't invalidate the point. If I can dance Mr Beveridge's Maggot, then I know you can."
Rose still looks sceptical. "Yeah, well. We haven't all got your super-power memory, have we? I'm never gonna learn all these steps."
Being, as Rose had put it, "all arms and legs" in this regeneration and therefore a rather clumsy dancer himself, the Doctor personally doesn't mind whether or not Rose is step-perfect. However, their latest adventure has brought them to this beautiful old house in the 19th century countryside, and their presence at the upcoming ball is a rather forced reward on the part of the gentleman-owner for saving his life from some particularly ugly and well-spoken aliens.
It's not all horses and garden-parties, though, Rose finds. In typical English country manor style, something mysterious is afoot, and the Doctor is sure that a particular house-guest is actually an alien with a plot to – well, they'll find out, if only they can get close enough to discover it. And that is where Rose comes in.
"Now, shoulders back and stand up tall," he tells her, taking her hand again and resuming their pace. If she can wangle herself a dance with the mysterious Mr Potentially-An-Alien (or Frederick, as he prefers to be called) then perhaps she can figure him out. He's bound to give himself away somewhere along the line.
Rose is still doubting the whole plan, insisting that Frederick might not give away his evil plans even if he does ask her to dance. The Doctor, however, considers himself decidedly unbiased in declaring both eventualities an impossibility – anyone with a plot to take over the world is invariably stupid enough to reveal their dastardly plots to pretty girls and clever captives, and as for not being asked to dance? Well, she's clearly the most beautiful girl in the house. He'd have to be blind not to ask her.
He's not going to tell her the latter part, though. It wouldn't do her dancing any good.
They take five steps forwards before he lets go and they turn in opposite directions, each walking towards a different wall. She remembers where to stop, and he beams. "And do not walk, but try to float."
"How comes they did so much pacing, anyway? I feel like I'm in a cowboy film…" she mumbles, drawing an imaginary gun and shooting at him with her fingers mid-twirl. Eyebrows raised in reluctant amusement, the Doctor begins walking again, each foot falling in time with an imaginary beat, and they pass each other in an s-shape.
A few steps beyond him, Rose misses one step then another, then another, and cries out in frustration. "I'm never gonna get this!"
He returns to her side of the room and patiently takes both of her hands, walking backwards around the room to show her where she's supposed to go. "Follow in my footsteps, shoe by shoe," he instructs, and she lets go of one of his hands to smack him in the arm.
"That's enough Disney for today, thanks."
"It's Twentieth Century Fox, actually."
--
Three hours later, the daylight has faded and Rose's stubborn nature has won through. She lets him lead her across the floor in the near dusk, twirling and spinning in all the right places, always leaving her hand in his a little too long when the dance requires them to separate. She'd started the day staring at her feet, frowning at each misplaced move, but now she's so engrossed in their dance – in him – that the steps have become second nature, no longer chores to be counted. Neither of them are quite sure when the Doctor's humming ceased or how long ago the sun left the sky.
When they finish the dance a few steps later, she simply stands across the room from him in shades of grey, a twenty-first century girl in a near-perfect nineteenth century pose, and the Doctor doesn't think she's even realised what she's finally managed to do.
He beams at her, watching her surface from a million miles away. "I told you that you could do it." He coughs slightly, his voice having grown hoarse through lack of use. Rose stares, then looks down at her now-still feet and quickly back up to him.
"What, you mean that's it? I actually learnt it?"
"Learnt it, beat it, almost made an art form out of it," he grins, taking the few steps across the room towards her. She holds her arms out almost on instinct, and he happily lifts her up and swings her around, laughing as she exclaims that she's done it.
"So," he beams, setting her back on her feet, "Do you feel like someone new?"
Rose makes a mental note to cancel their subscription to the Disney channel.