Chapter Two: Very Uptown
He was pacing. Up and down his wardrobe. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't think his crooked way out of a tessellation, either, for that matter. He'd just leapt right off the cliff-face of his comfort zone, with no thought as to what he was about. On pure impulse he'd gone and asked Rose out on a date. Suddenly the stakes were as high as they could possibly get, because he knew that, according to human custom, at the end of a date you were supposed to decide if you wanted to see more of one another. Or worse, decide to cut your losses and call it quits. Dammit all. Either way he was in the soup. The first outcome made him so nervous he thought he might regenerate on the spot, and should the second happen, he might choose to never regenerate again.
Too late to back-pedal now, to pretend it wasn't meant as a romantic gesture. Because what could be more romantic to a young human woman than the offer of an evening of dancing and posh dining, decked out in formal wear, all wrapped in mystery? He groaned. Rassilon help him, he had actually boasted that his private bits would be spending the evening dangling freely down his trousers, and that he liked it that way.
This body, it was rubbish at being a good Time Lord. He fought back a wave of shame. He had always assumed his people were fundamentally correct on the subject of sex. Taking one's baser urges out for walks, that was asking for trouble. When you're the equivalent of a minor deity, one mustn't go rutting about the universe, fraternising with the natives with your pants off. But Rose wanted him. After today, he was certain she did. Those potion chemicals had wiped out her inhibitions, but they couldn't cause any feelings that weren't already there. No, Rose fancied him. Sod the Time Lords. Gallifrey was gone. Earth was the closest thing to a home planet he had left. "Maybe it's time to just plunge in, once and for all," he murmerd to himself.
"But what to wear, what to wear?" He grabbed down a white-tie ensemble that was suspiciously at hand. A silk top hat and a pair of white gloves appeared on a nearby shelf. "It has to be tails and a top hat, really?" he asked the Tardis. He sighed. He was hoping for something less stiff, with fewer layers, maybe something easier to slip out of after an alfresco supper on a warm tropical beach somewhere, and laughing, run into the moonlit surf with Rose, where they might… But Rose, she would love him in this. If this was what the Tardis and Rose wanted him to wear, then he didn't want to disappoint the women in his life. Nothing for it but to bash on. Though he couldn't help but grimace as he donned the silly hat. He knew, if things worked out, that years from now Rose would still be poking fun about it.
A few hallways down, after bathing and styling her hair into a loose up-do, which she deemed neutral for most time periods, Rose put on the jewelry the Tardis had laid out for her on the bathroom counter; a silver woven brow band with a pendant hanging from one side, with small dangling geometric earrings and a matching necklace. Diamonds and platinum, she guessed, and she rather enjoyed the sensual feeling of wearing nothing but them right now, as she wandered into her room towards her armoire.
Opening it, she perused the choices she'd been given for clothes. She decided, despite the Doctor's intentions, she had best pick out something good for running. So she chose the most sensible shoes offered, cream silk but with heels that were low and wide, and with a strap across the vamp to keep them securely on her feet.
She picked a one piece dress that had a plenty of kicking room. Made from translucent layers of lace over a simple, flowing silk sheath, with its mid-calf hem, and sleeveless bodice, it would be easy to wear. She pulled down a thick crushed velvet evening cape, lushly embroidered with geometric patterns in gold silk thread. Better bring that, too, just in case they found themselves caught in a freak snowstorm, caused by the disintegration of alien starships. Again.
She wasn't sure what potential perils the thigh-high silk stockings and matching satin garters and knickers laid out on her bed would be good for. Then she thought, maybe those were in case the evening actually turned out as billed. She felt a little thrill. He'd finally done it! He'd asked her out on a date! She needed to take a few deep breaths before she went totally giddy.
After dressing, she went looking for him, and found him at his controls. She was delighted to see him wearing something other than his usual suit. Not that he wasn't lovely in his usual, but the change tonight played him up as the mysterious stranger. He appeared truly timeless. His tall, slender build carried off the glossy black tailcoat perfectly. And all those enticing layers of creamy silk: cummerbund, vest, bow tie and dress shirt. She realised he was watching her ogle him, for not the first time today, and she should have felt embarrassed except she was busy being overcome with laughter. He was sporting such a terrified, wide-eyed expression, like a rabbit being swooped down upon by a giant raptor at the edge of a wood, except the rabbit was wearing an enormous, very silly, infinitely endearing top hat.
He began laughing, too, though he wasn't sure he knew why, except she was happy, and he moved to stand before her. Rose watched as he softly took up one of her hands and he, goodness, he was kissing her hand, pressing his cool lips to it. Then he was murmuring endearing things, like, "Thank you for letting me escort you tonight," and, "You are so lovely to me, Rose." He turned her hand over, like it was the most precious thing, and kissed the inside of her wrist.
"I think I'm gonna melt into the floor if you keep that up," she said.
"No, no melting. From our clothes, I'd say the Tardis is sending us somewhere non-Tropical."
He was being all coy now. What a tease, she thought. Lord of Time, more like Lord of Tease. "Just hope it's on Earth," she said, hopefully.
"Ah, but who knows! Mystery tour, right? She's in charge, the Tardis. I'm just doing as I'm told. I put on these togs then came in here and pushed a great big blue blinking button, and away we go!"
"Well wherever she's taking us, I hope there's food I recognize," Rose said. "And I definitely hope it's -"
"Not-on-a-stick!" they chimed in unison.
"Snap!" The Doctor had it this time.
The Tardis flew smoothly, for once. The Doctor didn't have to do any racing around with mallets. "She must not want me to muss my suit," he said, patting the console. He thought his ship gave him a soft wink with her lights as she landed them without the usual thud. "So, Miss Tyler, shall we?" He held out his arm. Rose took it. They hooked elbows and tripped lightly out to their mystery date.
The Tardis had parked herself in an alleyway between two elaborate stone buildings, next to a busy city street. The sun had just finished setting, but poshly dressed passersby were still thronging the adjacent sidewalk, and the roadway was choked with shiny old-fashioned black automobiles and long rumbling streetcars filled with men and women in hats. So many hats. Rose wondered if the Tardis should have given her a hat. A large group of young men in military dress wearing pointy hats with broad brims passed by, laughing in the rowdy way soldiers do when they're on leave. "Must be a war on," Rose said.
"Yes," the Doctor replied, taking note of the style of their uniforms. His expression turned dark. "The 'Great' War," he said sarcastically. His sudden bitterness startled Rose, given the jolly mood they had just been in. He continued, "Nasty business that war. Millions slaughtered, to no purpose. Merely the rich and powerful, having a carve-up of the world."
A man's voice came from behind them. "Couldn't agree with you more, chap." They turned around to see who was addressing them. Stepping out of a side doorway into the alley was a dapper man, with an impeccably groomed mustache, and a top hat that Rose was amused to see had the Doctor's beat by about an inch and a half. The man was sporting an elegant, dark-haired lady on his arm. She was draped in a mountain of sable furs, with an intelligent, penetrating stare hovering above a wry smile.
"You had best keep your voices down," she said. "Four of us talking this way together in a dark alley-patriotism is all the rage this year, haven't you heard? Can't collect your thoughts these days without getting arrested for unlawful assembly."
The Doctor studied the couple for a second, trying to place them, and saw that the door they'd come from was marked, "Stage." Before he could put it together, the gentleman introduced himself. "Robert Benchley." He held his hand out for the Doctor to shake. "And this dangerous woman on my arm is -"
The Doctor, ignoring the man's hand, instead grabbed up the woman's and began pumping it up and down vigorously. "Dottie Parker, of course!" he exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.
The richly dressed lady gave him a small frown and gingerly reclaimed her hand. Turning to Rose, she held it out and said,"Mrs. Dorothy Parker," correcting the familiar manner in which Doctor had addressed her. "Perhaps you'll be less enthusiastic to meet me," she said, in a way that was scolding but also full of a dry humor.
Rose gave the lady's hand a gentle press then released it. "Please excuse my friend, he's a bit rude," she apologised.
"Sorry, so sorry!" the Doctor said, catching hold of his manners. "Oh, who am I then? I'm the Doctor, Doctor Smith, Sir Doctor John Smith, actually. And this is my lovely companion, Dame Rose Tyler Powell. This is truly a pleasure. I've heard so much about you both. The Great War, Broadway in its heyday, the dawn of the Jazz Age, yes, and here's Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley!"
"Do I know you, sir?" Mrs. Parker asked.
"Not directly, no, but I believe we have a mutual friend." The Doctor reached into his inner coat pocket to fish out his psychic paper. "Spent an excellent week at Le Touquet this summer, ran into P.G. Wodehouse, good times, yes, delightful spot, hmm, but perhaps you know it? French seaside, everyone was there this year." He handed the small black leather folder to Mrs. Parker, knowing it would display for her whatever she needed to see to ease his and Rose's way into her company. "Tout le monde, and all that." He gave his eyebrows a little exercise, for Rose's benefit.
Rose turned her head to chide into his ear, "Pouring the society thing on a bit thick, yeah?"
The psychic paper was showing Mrs. Parker a recent photo of two smiling men, their arms around one another, posing casually on a beach. She showed it to Mr. Benchley. "Look, Bob, it's our dear Plum!"
"Good old P.G.," replied Mr. Benchley, "Long may he stay gone across the Pond while we enjoy his position, and his salary, at Vanity Fair magazine."
Mrs. Parker laughed. "I must say, he looks simply ridiculous, that costume is practically to his ankles. Someone needs to liberate him. Men are daring to show a little knee this century! And this must be you, Doctor Smith," she continued, pointing to the photo. "Now your bathing suit, that's more like it. I believe that to be a fine example of why modern men are being encouraged to display more of their legs."
She handed the fake photo back to the Doctor with a direct and flirty stare that made Rose feel a passing twinge of irritation.
Mr. Benchley continued. "We've just come from a rehearsal of Barrymore's new play, Redemption. Cheery Russian thing, Tolstoi. Dottie's been sent to review it and I'm assisting. It's taken both of us to replace Wodehouse as theater critic at Vanity Fair-no one's as prolific. God bless Plum, haven't seen him all summer. How is he getting on?"
"Well, very well," the Doctor said. "Busy penning stories about a butler named Jeeves. Have a feeling it'll catch on."
"Care to join us for supper?" Mr. Benchley asked. "We were just on our way to the Astor. Have you been on their roof?"
Rose and the Doctor shook their heads.
"Then this is a fateful evening indeed," said Mrs. Parker. "For one cannot truly say they have experienced New York until one has dined amid the appalling muddle of over-wrought orangeries, tortured topiaries, and mismatched plaster antiquities that is the roof garden of the Hotel Astor."
"It would be our pleasure!" the Doctor replied. The foursome walked out onto the busy sidewalk and headed north.
"The Great White Way. The beginnings of Broadway," the Doctor instructed Rose, who was taking in the flashing glow of thousands of white incandescent lights, covering every building and marquee.
"This is Times Square, innit? This is where they drop the ball-I recognize it from telly," Rose said.
Falling back to come alongside her, Mrs. Parker took Rose's free arm, prompting the Doctor to move up to Mr. Benchley. "Let's allow the men to continue their chat about the War, shall we? Us females have better things to talk about-such as them. Your Dr. Smith is quite the charmer, but I suppose you've noticed."
Rose just gave a nod and a weak smile. After a few moments of silence, Mrs. Parker realised she was not going to be rewarded with any juicy tidbits. She changed tactics, inquiring, "So where exactly did you say your people are from, Dame Rose?"
"Powell."
"Oh, is that in the south?"
"Outside London. You been?" Rose was trying to get the topic of conversation off herself. She was already out of her element, and having to be "Dame Rose," it was too much. She felt off-balance, and exposed. She would prefer facing down a homicidal alien over this society lady. Her romantic evening was quickly turning into something else entirely, something that did not even include getting to walk next to the Doctor.
"Have I been to London? But of course," Mrs. Parker replied. "Tremendous theater there, but I'm sure you're well aware. Though you lot seem convinced that, just because you've three hundred years' more practice putting on plays, you must have it over on us. We've had such drivel here lately, I may give it to you. Big thing right now is this brainless Irving Berlin spectacular, featuring the international hit 'Over There,' you know, the rousing wartime tune everyone's singing while they shoot at one another in the mud? Why, my newly-wed husband may be leading a chorus of it right now. He left a few weeks ago. For France." Mrs. Parker grew silent for a moment, and Rose could sense a deep disappointment in her. "Men will cherish honor and duty, won't they? Convenient when it gets them out of the house."
"Did you not want him to go?" Rose asked, gently.
Mrs. Parker waved her free arm dismissively, and laughed a thin laugh. "If a large, strong, able-bodied man won't go to war because a perfectly self-supporting woman says that she would miss him if he went-well, seems to me that would be a trifle over-obliging of him."
Rose contemplated the Doctor, walking a few feet ahead of them. She nodded at his back. "S'impossible to stop him when he's set on somethin'. And he takes off so fast you ain't got time to try and talk 'im out of anythin', anyways. He says I wander off, but really it's him that does. We'll be visitin', say, some foreign city, and I'll turn 'round and he's just disappeared. Poof. Jus' like that. Been left on my own lots of times." Mrs. Parker was starting to look alarmed. "But he always comes back," Rose hurriedly added, realising she had begun to babble. "Though sometimes we'll bump into one another when we're both runnin' from opposite directions, like, back to our, uh, hotel, and occasionally I've had to go lookin' for him, 'cause he's been arrested…" Rose realised it might be better to just not talk, before she sparked suspicion. Mrs. Parker's keen sideways glances and intrigued air suggested it was way too late for that.
She's gonna make us, Rose thought.
"Here we are, the Hotel Astor," Mr. Benchley announced. The large, stately building was ornately ornamented, and had every one of its hundreds of windows topped gaily in yards of gold striped fabric. Apprising it, he declared, "The finest architectural example I know of our Golden Age of Window Awnings."
Two liveried doormen swung open a pair of heavy beveled glass doors, and the group headed across a cavernous lobby and into an elegant elevator. An operator in a little pill-box hat secured the doors and asked them their destination. As he took them up to the roof, Mrs. Parker and Mr. Benchley began loudly discussing something about someone they knew. The Doctor took the opportunity to sidle up to Rose, and whisper, "Think the Tardis wants a window awning?"
"Don't you dare," Rose whispered back. "She'd buck like a bronco, and knock us silly. You know," she chided him, while she had his ear, "I wish you'd left out my being 'Dame Rose.' Not like I can pull it off, not with this lot. Blimey they make me nervous."
"This from the wee naked child who teased Queen Victoria mercilessly? Why intimidated now?"
"Dunno, but I am. The way that Parker woman stares, it's like she sees right through you. By the way, a 'Dame,' never found out what that is exactly, is it some kinda Duchess?"
He didn't get a chance to reply, because as soon as the elevator arrived at the roof garden, Mrs. Parker began exclaiming loudly, then she was out like a shot, towering and fussing over a rather short, very slight, very pale woman with a small, freckled face and an unruly mop of flame-red hair, wearing a wrinkled linen suit that was ten years out of fashion.
Mrs. Parker motioned to the Doctor and Rose to approach. "Sir Smith, Dame Rose, please let me introduce you to the only Bohemian I can tolerate, Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay. Edna, this is Sir Doctor John Smith, and his friend Dame Rose Tyler Powell."
Everyone shook hands, Miss Millay taking Mrs. Parker to task immediately. "If Bohemia is so intolerable, then why is your set starting to overrun us? Can barely find a seat for a play anymore, and the cafes are terribly crowded every weekend. The poor communists don't know where to hold their meetings, now that all the best back rooms are filling up with people in formal wear. Honestly, Bob, Dottie, couldn't you let drop in one of your columns that my little corner of New York is no longer fashionable?"
"Darling I have no idea what the appeal is, believe me," replied Mrs. Parker. "I can't stand it below 14th Street. Everyone wearing sandals and imagining themselves actors, artists and such." Turning to the Doctor and Rose, she belied her earlier harsh teasing with a true look of affection, and awe, at Miss Millay. She proudly hugged her around her shoulder and said, "Mind you, Edna here is the real thing. She's our new sensation, and rightly so. She makes poetry look so easy, we all think we can do it. So we try, and of course we can't."
Mr. Benchley chimed in. "I can imagine a time coming when Vanity Fair won't go to press without one of her poems in it." Addressing Miss Millay directly, he said, "I am glad you stooped to coming to dine with us. Oh, and congratulations on your new position at The Liberator! We are all looking forward, indeed, to being liberated. Now let's see about some dinner, shall we?" He motioned to the Maitre d'Hotel to have them seated.
They were led to a modest, round table, ringed with the type of chairs one would find in a garden, under an elegant glass and iron structure that was reminiscent of a soaring greenhouse. Grape vines draped and wound about its iron rafters, and orange and lemon trees stood about in huge pots along the walls. The building could be closed or opened with many sliding panels and windows, and tonight's mild temperatures were perfect for it being partially open to the night air.
"Lucky we've an Indian Summer this year," Mrs. Parker said.
"Don't tell me you're going to talk about the weather," Mr. Benchley teased.
A waiter presented them each with an enormous menu.
Rose had been guided to sit across from the Doctor, and not next to him. That was really too bad, she thought, because she could have used his help with the menu. Most of it was in French, which wasn't a problem, as the Tardis handily translated for her, but even in English there was no way to tell what ingredients anything actually contained, or how it was prepared. "Petites Marnites," she read aloud, dazed, and then, "Croute au Pot."
Miss Millay, who had been seated next to Rose, saw her scowling at the menu and leaned in to quietly confess, "I haven't a clue what half this bunk is."
"Me neither, Miss Millay!" Rose replied, grateful that the small woman had the courage to admit it, which made Rose feel suddenly much more at ease.
"Call me Vincent," Miss Millay replied quietly. "That's how my friends do. I need to be reminded who I am when I'm this far Uptown. Of course, you can leave off the 'Saint' that comes before it. For good reasons." She gave Rose a wink, and a slightly flirtatious smile.
Rose realized that inside this slight, plain-looking girl was banked a flame that could leap into a roaring fire, at any given moment. It was an exciting realization, and made Rose want to be around her more. There was something endearing about Vincent, too, she felt. Something that made you want to be kind to her. Probably her openness, Rose concluded.
"How'd you meet these two?" Vincent asked quietly, gesturing to Mrs. Parker and Mr. Benchley. "Never mind," she interrupted herself. "I don't care." Rose had the impression Vincent was not all that comfortable with them, either.
Rose continued scowling at the menu while Vincent chatted up their hostess.
"How's Redemption coming along, Dottie?"
"Barrymore is flawless. The production is truly headed for perfection. But while they were translating the thing into English, I do wish they'd done something about those Russian names. Seems in Russia, each person is sometimes called by all of his names, sometimes by only his first three or four, and sometimes by a nickname which has nothing to do with any of the other names; it's difficult to gather exactly whom they are talking about. They could have changed Fedor Vasilyevich Protosov and Sergei Dmitrievich Abreskov and Ivan Petrovich Alexandrov into Ted and Ned and Ed, and I would be less confused."
Upon hearing this string of names, the Doctor and Rose looked up and and locked eyes, trading a conspiratorial grin. Now that was a coincidence to end all coincidences, thought Rose.
The Doctor inquired of her, "Decided on what you'd like?"
"Not sure," she said.
"Perhaps try the duck?" he suggested, tapping his finger at a large section of his menu, entitled "Roast Duck."
"Yeah, but which one?" Rose asked. She began reading the choices aloud. "Ruddy Duck, Canvas Back Duck, Red Headed Duck, Mallard Duck, and… Plover. Think there'll be any ducks left in New York after tonight? Oh, I did see this one-Potatoes Parisienne. Wonder if they mean chips? You know, like, Paris Potatoes, as in, French Fries?"
"Mmm, doubtful, but give it a go," the Doctor replied, adding, "and maybe something recognizable, eh, like the Roast Fillet of Beef?"
"Yeah, alright, that sounds nice."
Rose was astonished to feel a smooth dress sock, enclosing some rather alarmingly agile toes, begin to tap lightly at her ankle, and then rub up and down the top of her foot. She locked eyes with the Doctor again, and took in his mirthful twinkle. Maybe this was his way of trying to make it up to her for the crowded turn their evening had taken? At any rate, if he was going to keep doing this, she didn't care who they were sitting with.
Cool as a cucumber, he announced to the table, "Think I fancy oysters tonight. Haven't had an oyster in, oh, centuries! Shame to go without something so nice for so long."
"You sure you need 'em?" Rose countered, enjoying a shiver caused by an especially delicious pass up the back of her calf with the top of his foot.
"Why," the Doctor put on a shocked tone, "Dame Rose Tyler Powell, you can't be referring to the oyster's reported ability to induce an amorous-"
He was interrupted by Mrs. Parker. "Now you two behave, this is a respectable establishment, you'll frighten the waiters."
Vincent added, "Come to the Village, and we can discuss sex all you like over a fifteen cent spaghetti dinner. My favorite garrett's all libertines, they'll cheer you on."
The Doctor, true to his word, ordered two dozen raw oysters, and a large tray of pickled gherkins to go with them. And a martini. "Just for the olive," he explained.
"Disgustin'," Rose commented.
"No, Rose, olives are good for you," he replied.
"Didn't mean the olive," she countered. To which the Doctor responded by toeing the side of her knee and then trying to wiggle his way up the back of her thigh. These further explorations were making him scoot down now in his chair to the point where Rose was sure their little game was going to be found out. It did seem Mr. Benchley was becoming more and more amused, watching the Doctor.
The food arrived. Rose was disappointed when the Doctor removed his foot and sat up straight, and also that her Parisian potatoes were not chips. They were round, for one thing, and covered in some kind of green goo for another. She did try them; they did not taste bad, but she could not get past the texture. She eventually ate all her steak, though, after picking off all the mushrooms and arranging them in a little pile at the edge of her plate.
Vincent urged her to try some of what she had blindly ordered, something called "Aiquillettes of Sole Dieppoise," which turned out to be pieces of baked fish in a white wine sauce, and was quite delicious. Rose took a pass on a chance to sample Vincent's pickled beets. The Doctor, however, hearing anything pickled on offer, insisted on standing up, leaning over the table, and fishing a beet across from Vincent's plate onto his, to the further amusement of Mr. Benchley and the consternation of Mrs. Parker.
Wine kept coming throughout the meal, thanks to Mr. Benchley. After a few glasses, Rose realized she had best lay off if she did not want a repeat of today's performance. The Doctor seemed unaffected by the wine, though he had consumed several glasses, along with his martini.
A band began to play at the other end of the roof.
"Excuse us, ladies and gentleman, I believe I owe someone a dance. Dame Rose Tyler Powell, how 'bout it?" the Doctor asked, getting up and walking to Rose, where he gallantly pulled out her chair for her.
"Never thought you'd ask," Rose replied, happily rising.
They strolled arm in arm across the length of the roof garden to the dance floor, passing first under a plaster replica of the Arch of Titus, then winding among several statues of dubious artistic merit, depicting various minor Roman sprites and nymphs. They took in an adjoining forest of potted palm trees and ferns, and finally stopped for a moment to view a busy fountain featuring a plaster Venus rising from a lopsided clamshell.
The dance floor was huge, and so was the orchestra. Dozens of couples were already out dancing, with room to spare, on the polished wood parquet tiles that floated over the roof. The scene was lit with strings of more of Broadway's electric white lights.
The band finished their current number, and struck up a popular current ragtime tune. The dancers all let out a "Whoop!" and took up positions for the fox trot.
"C'mon, let's show them our moves," the Doctor said, whisking Rose up onto the dance floor, his right hand reaching round to firmly press her between her shoulder blades, the other pulling a pair of their matched arms high and out, poised as if they were about to begin a waltz.
To her amazement, Rose felt prompted in these opening movements, as if she had been doing this all her life, in the same way she understood alien languages when they were on a new planet.
Starting with small, nimble movements, the Doctor pushed one foot forward, then backwards, Rose following him like a mirror, then the other foot, then a bit of a turn, their hips twisting in a bobbing, sliding way that was quite merry.
As the dance progressed, and they got the hang of one another, their steps grew larger and larger. Bobbing turned to bouncing, then kicks were added out to one side, then the next, then the all their steps turned into rollicking, hopping high kicks. The crowd was working itself into a lather, as couples began free-styling, some promenading up and down the floor in exaggerated versions of ersatz tangos, others breaking off contact to point their fingers in the air and hop around one another in a circle before meeting up again.
"This isn't dancing," Rose happily shouted, "it's skipping!"
The fox trot was really doing marvelous things to the Doctor's mess of floppy hair, Rose noticed. Laughing, she leaned in to him, and they gave it their all with a final barrage of swinging side kicks, working together like a mad pendulum, as the song came to a rousing end.
A slower, more sedate two-step began, and they let themselves rest as they swayed together.
"So the Tardis showed me those steps?" she wondered out loud.
His reply was murmured into her hair. "Yes, she's really the one with the moves. Translating the dance for you. Translating the language of love for me."
"Love." There was a word she had never heard him speak before, in any context. She arched her back to look at his face. She saw in his eyes that rare, raw vulnerability which she longed to coax out into the open, where it might grow into something she could carefully nurture, forever, if he would allow it.
"Sometime," she whispered, returning her head to his shoulder, "I'd like to hear you speak to me in your language."
"You already have, I think," he replied, humor in his voice.
She gave him a little smack on his shoulder. "I don't mean all the swearin' you do when you and the Tardis aren't gettin' on."
He grinned and they kept putting one foot in front of the other, through several more numbers, easily moving under the Tardis' gentle guidance.