Title: The Best Thing for You
Author: aces
Warnings: Probably glaringly American slang where it doesn't belong. Screwed-up pov, again. Mild spoilers for "The Doctor Dances" & "Boomtown." And, well, y'know, if you haven't seen the new series…
Notes: I had this idea, and then the "silence" challenge on the LJ drabble community came up, so I combined them. And it's become a cliché already, this scenario, but I hope there's a slight twist…

The Best Thing for You

"I wouldn't try it if I were you," Rose says, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed and long hair falling across her face. She's watching you admire yourself in the mirror, trying to decide if you need the short leather jacket or not.

"Try what," you say absent-mindedly, twisting so you can see your arse.

"What you're so obviously about to try," Rose answers, stepping into the room and wandering around, looking at the bits of clothing strewn about the clutter of furniture. She fingers a white linen shirt admiringly. "It's not gonna work, I can tell you that much."

"Already tried it yourself, have you?" you say, with a condescending smile, and toss off the jacket and turn to select something else.

She shakes her head, frowning a little, and drops the shirt. She looks up at you, and you pause to frown back inquiringly.

She leans up and kisses you on the cheek.

"Well, Rose," you smile as she steps back, "you don't have to stop there, you know. But if you wouldn't mind holding that thought—"

"I won't have to hold it long," she cuts you off, and now she's smirking a little. Her hips sway, just a little, as she walks back toward the door.

She pauses again in the doorway and looks back, and that impish grin on her face is just about irresistible. (You don't have much experience at resisting in any case.) "I still really wouldn't try it if I were you."

She laughs, and walks away.

"Huh," you say to the empty air. And then you shake yourself and go back to debating with yourself the finer points of leather or cashmere.

"Doctor," you say grandly as you saunter into the console room. "How would you—Doctor?"

The Doctor's nowhere to be seen.

"Huh," you say again, and deflate a little. (It's okay, no one is looking.) Not the greatest entrance you've ever made, you think to yourself with a wry smile, and turn to hunt the Doctor down elsewhere.

He's standing behind you, watching. He's not wearing his leather jacket.

"There you are," you smile, the warmest, most seductive smile you have. (And that's saying something.) You open your arms wide, one hand holding two glasses, the other a bottle. "How about that drink?"

He had been frowning; now he grins, a little ruefully, and runs up the few steps to join you by the console. You grin back, triumphant, and set the glasses on one of the few flat spaces you can find on the console.

"Nice outfit," he says, as you pop the cork and pour the wine. You grin up at him, bent to your work.

"Thanks," you manage modesty nicely, and hand him a glass with a flourish. You refrain from adjusting your black bowtie. You'd thought he'd get a kick out of the tux. "You don't look so bad yourself."

And it makes a change from all the leather.

"Cheers," you say, holding up your glass.

"Chin chin," the Doctor answers, clinking glasses and taking a demure sip. "Shouldn't we invite Rose to this charming get-together?"

"I think Rose is washing her hair," you say in all sincerity, and seat yourself on the little couch running along the railing. You leave plenty of room for him to join you, of course, but he doesn't, not right away. Instead he leans a little against the console and sips his wine and looks at you as if he's planning something.

Something interesting, you hope.

"So what's the occasion then?" he asks after a pause, and you're still admiring each other.

You shrug (it's always so annoying to shrug in a suit jacket, what with the shoulders). "A bit of hard work," you smile as innocently as you can manage.

He snorts and yeah, you know it's been a few years since innocence even attempted to co-exist in the same star system as you. "So I'm worth a tux, then," he says and sprawls onto the couch next to you, and you would crow in triumph if it wasn't really tacky.

Instead, you lean forward and pour a little more wine into his glass. (So alcohol probably doesn't work on Time Lords. It's can't hurt to try.) "You are definitely worth a tux," you tell him before leaning back.

A grin crosses his face, and he shakes his head and looks away and drinks some more wine, and really, this is going as smoothly as you'd envisioned, hoped for; smoother, even.

You finish off your wine (still your first glass) and carefully set the bottle down before standing up and facing the Doctor. "This tux," you say, "really wants to dance."

"Two glasses of wine and you already expect me to put out? What kind of cheap date do you think I am?" the Doctor scoffs, and leans over to grab the bottle. He pours himself a third glass.

"What's a little dancing?" you protest, spreading your arms out wide, palms flat, open and inviting as you can possibly be. Your right hand surreptitiously strokes the TARDIS console, and music springs up from nowhere. Light, jazzy, confident; you can almost hear Dino crooning along if you tilt your head just right.

The Doctor glares at you abruptly, glass in one hand, wine bottle in the other. "Oi! No messing about, flirting with my TARDIS! She's a one-guy time machine, I'll have you know."

You're grinning so hard you're surprised your dimple doesn't punch a hole in your mouth. "What can I say? She likes me." You hold out a hand toward the other man expectantly, smile disappearing into a look of honest appeal that you've perfected over the years through constant use.

"Dance with me," you say simply.

He frowns up at you, and he's still holding bottle and glass. "Come on," you laugh. "Rose gets a dance but I don't?"

"I've known Rose longer," he says huffily and sets the bottle down as carefully as you had done. "I don't dance with just anyone, you know."

"And am I just anyone? Would you let just anyone travel with you in the first place?"

"We did let Adam in," the Doctor says dubiously, and you roll your eyes. He polishes off his wine and stands up, as if in preparation to leave.

So you get in his way.

It takes a duck and somewhat awkward leap, and isn't exactly part of the smooth image you're trying to cultivate here, but you're between him and the door to the rest of the TARDIS, so you give yourself a ten for persistence, a four for style. (Even awkward, you're still stylish.) The Doctor's frozen in front of you, and you put your hands on his shoulders and look directly into his eyes.

"Dance with me," you say again.

Your hands slide down his shoulders, his arms, taking his hands. They're cool to the touch, and you shiver, just a little. You're not breaking eye contact, and neither is he, and it's been a helluva long time since you've held such an intense look with anyone.

Grudgingly, he lets you lead him around the room, and it's not what you'd wished for, not now, with him so reluctant and suddenly broody. And this is what always happens with him, and it's what frustrates you about him, this hot and cold.

This is what Rose meant, you know, and maybe you should just go and find Rose instead, but you've gotten this far and you don't give up that easily.

But maybe you should've gotten a little more wine in him before you started this phase of the Grand Idea.

"Listen to the music," you say softly, and you're almost dancing in place with him. "I know you can dance better than this."

"Maybe I've forgotten again," he says sulkily, and maybe you'd laugh at his childishness if you weren't so determined.

"Listen," you command, and when he opens his mouth to argue more, you place a finger over his lips. He glares mutinously, but remains silent, and you place your hand over his eyes, only removing it when you feel his eyelids flutter close, lashes tickling the skin of your palm.

He relaxes slowly, so imperceptibly you don't notice until you're moving with him around the floor, and the TARDIS picks up on it, shifting the music into something a little faster, a little sexier, a little more insistent.

This is it, you think, heart thumping, this is it, maybe your fantasy is going to fall through after all—

You dip him, just because you can, and you misjudge his weight a little and stumble, but you don't drop him and you don't fall. He's looking up at you, but you can't read his expression in this light, and you pull him up so you can kiss him properly.

He responds at first, and now your heart's really going, and you think, Rose was wrong with a strange clarity, but then he pulls back.

You're holding onto him, though, so he can't pull back very far, and you open your eyes to look at him. He looks back, all long nose and high cheekbones, better suited perhaps to his current blank-but-wary expression than the manic grin he sometimes throws on to baffle everybody else.

He starts to try to pull back more, but you cling tightly.

"Stop holding back," you tell him.

His body tenses, he shakes his head, nods once, briefly shuts his eyes. He leans his forehead against yours, and your own eyes fall closed again as you take a deep breath.

He kisses you where his skin had just been touching yours, and then he's gone, silently.

The TARDIS lets the music trail off, die away, completing the silence.

You're still standing there, facing the outer door, when you feel a small, cool hand slip into yours. "Told you you shouldn't try it," Rose says softly.

You smile down at her crookedly. "I'm a sucker for the challenge," you tell her, and lead her around the console, picking up a half-empty bottle and two wineglasses along the way. "Care to finish this off with me?"

"Fobbing your secondhand wine off on me, are you?" Rose teases, smacking your arm lightly. "You could at least apologize, you know!"

"Hey," you grin, spreading your arms out wide, palms flat, as open and inviting as you can possibly be. "I've gotta get some use out of this tux, haven't I?" You cinch an arm around her waist, still holding the bottle, and draw her in close. She laughs and takes the glasses away from you, snuggling in quite nicely.

She's laughing in your arms, but you can still feel the Doctor's silent kiss against your skin.

"Silence is safer than speech."
Epictetus