she wore an itsy bitsy teeny weeny; a doctor/rose fic.
she wore an itsy bitsy teeny weeny, ten/rose, g
The Doctor takes Rose to 1929 California; Rose decides to change fashion history.
Standing in the surf of the Pacific, the white foam of the spent waves clinging to his legs, the Doctor wondered if it had been wise to bring Rose to a public beach in the summer of 1929., 979 words
Standing in the surf of the Pacific, the white foam of the spent waves clinging to his legs, the Doctor wondered if it had been wise to bring Rose to a public beach in the summer of 1929.
“What exactly is that?” she had said after they’d landed, her mouth screwed up in disgust.
“A bathing suit,” he’d replied in surprise, looking back into the closet of the TARDIS at the piece of clothing she pointed accusingly at. “A design popular in the 1920s. You said you wanted to see the flapper era.”
“Yeah, but when I said flapper I meant… Y’know, Chicago, speakeasies, mobsters and Tommy guns.”
“Rose Tyler, I am not introducing you to Al Capone. With your talent for attracting trouble, the last thing we need is to get involved with trigger happy American mobsters with a fondness for blondes.”
“My talent for attracting trouble? You’re the walking lightning rod for weird, Doctor. You just have to put on a tie to set off an inter-planet conflict.”
He pulled the hanger off the rack. “Anyway, I thought you’d like a bit of a vacation, a little summer holiday. Go for a swim, make sandcastles, soak up the sun, whatever else it is you humans do at the beach.”
She had accepted the hanger hesitantly, staring at the one-piece bathing suit with a distinct air of distrust. “But it’s got sleeves! And… lace! People really swam in these?”
“Oh yes. Oh! And you mustn’t forget this!”
Rose pointedly ignored the black bathing cap he waved toward her, turned, and walked back to her room.
A half hour had passed and the Doctor had gotten tired of waiting for his companion. It was only a bathing suit, after all, and she had never taken so long to get into more complicated clothing like corsets and petticoats before. This line of thought made him imagine the process Rose must have undergone to single-handedly lace up the corset she wore to 1808 Paris, and he did his best to squash that image before it went too far.
He picked up the basket containing their picnic lunch and towels and rapped loudly at her door.
“Rose? You coming?”
“Go ahead, Doctor. I’ll be out in a mo.”
So he’d listened to her. Stepped out into the dazzling bright sunshine of July 18th, 1929, breathed in the salty tang of the air, and walked quickly across the hot sand to stake out a good spot for their basket. And then, because the air was shimmering with heat and the spray of the ocean was too tempting, he’d kicked off his shoes and rushed into the water.
And had promptly been bowled over by the incoming wave he hadn’t anticipated. He stood up quickly, spluttering saltwater and rubbing at his eyes, slicking back his hair and devoutly hoping Rose hadn’t seen his undignified tumble. But when he’d turned around to look back at the TARDIS, parked discreetly next to a row of pale blue changing tents, what he saw nearly made him fall over a second time.
There was Rose Tyler. No, really. There. Was. Rose Tyler. Almost entirely Rose Tyler. Practically nothing but Rose Tyler. She’d attacked the bathing suit with a pair of sewing shears, converting the traditional and demure piece of public lingerie into one of the most daring bikinis the Doctor had ever seen. And he’d been to Monaco on several occasions.
To be fair, there was still some lace. Some… And at least she had a classic parasol to keep the sun off…
Rose could see his expression clear enough, and started laughing. That full-bodied, purely Rose laugh that shook her hair and showcased every one of her brilliant white teeth and that playful pink tongue. She made her way across the beach towards him, utterly unaware of the hundreds of staring eyes she was attracting, her attention solely focused on the dripping wet Time Lord.
“Doctor, you look like a wet rat.”
He glanced down quickly at the loose black-and-white striped shorts he’d cinched a belt around to keep up, the baggy short-sleeved swim-shirt that hung down at the collar and displayed more of his neck and upper chest than he was used to. “It’s hard to anticipate the sizes every one of your regenerations will need.”
“You look like a little boy playing dress up with his Dad’s clothes.” She reached up and ruffled his wet hair, which responded to her touch as if electrified and sprang out in every direction. “It’s cute.”
“Rose, you do realize that… bathing suit of yours is going to get us in trouble.”
“Why’re they called bathing suits, I wonder?” Rose mused aloud, spinning her parasol. “I mean, strictly speaking, a bathing suit is your birthday suit, right? Nothing at all.”
The Doctor felt the flush rush to his cheeks and was supremely grateful when the incoming wave knocked them both over and covered his uncontrolled reaction. And that the first thing he saw upon resurfacing was Rose Tyler flicking her wet hair back over her shoulder like something out of a mermaid fairytale.
“I should’ve known you were up to something,” he said reprovingly.
“Doctor, do you want to swim or do you want to lecture me?” Up came that dark eyebrow, out poked that pink tongue, and the Doctor knew it wasn’t worth quibbling about at that precise moment. He’d worry about the public outcry and scandal, the legal prosecution for indecent exposure, the fact that this little stunt would no doubt be mentioned in the newspaper gossip columns and perhaps affect the whole course of America’s fashion later.
Right now, at this very moment in history, in his particular timeline, Rose Tyler was in a bikini and wanted to play Marco Polo.
The Doctor takes Rose to 1929 California; Rose decides to change fashion history.
Standing in the surf of the Pacific, the white foam of the spent waves clinging to his legs, the Doctor wondered if it had been wise to bring Rose to a public beach in the summer of 1929., 979 words
Standing in the surf of the Pacific, the white foam of the spent waves clinging to his legs, the Doctor wondered if it had been wise to bring Rose to a public beach in the summer of 1929.
“What exactly is that?” she had said after they’d landed, her mouth screwed up in disgust.
“A bathing suit,” he’d replied in surprise, looking back into the closet of the TARDIS at the piece of clothing she pointed accusingly at. “A design popular in the 1920s. You said you wanted to see the flapper era.”
“Yeah, but when I said flapper I meant… Y’know, Chicago, speakeasies, mobsters and Tommy guns.”
“Rose Tyler, I am not introducing you to Al Capone. With your talent for attracting trouble, the last thing we need is to get involved with trigger happy American mobsters with a fondness for blondes.”
“My talent for attracting trouble? You’re the walking lightning rod for weird, Doctor. You just have to put on a tie to set off an inter-planet conflict.”
He pulled the hanger off the rack. “Anyway, I thought you’d like a bit of a vacation, a little summer holiday. Go for a swim, make sandcastles, soak up the sun, whatever else it is you humans do at the beach.”
She had accepted the hanger hesitantly, staring at the one-piece bathing suit with a distinct air of distrust. “But it’s got sleeves! And… lace! People really swam in these?”
“Oh yes. Oh! And you mustn’t forget this!”
Rose pointedly ignored the black bathing cap he waved toward her, turned, and walked back to her room.
A half hour had passed and the Doctor had gotten tired of waiting for his companion. It was only a bathing suit, after all, and she had never taken so long to get into more complicated clothing like corsets and petticoats before. This line of thought made him imagine the process Rose must have undergone to single-handedly lace up the corset she wore to 1808 Paris, and he did his best to squash that image before it went too far.
He picked up the basket containing their picnic lunch and towels and rapped loudly at her door.
“Rose? You coming?”
“Go ahead, Doctor. I’ll be out in a mo.”
So he’d listened to her. Stepped out into the dazzling bright sunshine of July 18th, 1929, breathed in the salty tang of the air, and walked quickly across the hot sand to stake out a good spot for their basket. And then, because the air was shimmering with heat and the spray of the ocean was too tempting, he’d kicked off his shoes and rushed into the water.
And had promptly been bowled over by the incoming wave he hadn’t anticipated. He stood up quickly, spluttering saltwater and rubbing at his eyes, slicking back his hair and devoutly hoping Rose hadn’t seen his undignified tumble. But when he’d turned around to look back at the TARDIS, parked discreetly next to a row of pale blue changing tents, what he saw nearly made him fall over a second time.
There was Rose Tyler. No, really. There. Was. Rose Tyler. Almost entirely Rose Tyler. Practically nothing but Rose Tyler. She’d attacked the bathing suit with a pair of sewing shears, converting the traditional and demure piece of public lingerie into one of the most daring bikinis the Doctor had ever seen. And he’d been to Monaco on several occasions.
To be fair, there was still some lace. Some… And at least she had a classic parasol to keep the sun off…
Rose could see his expression clear enough, and started laughing. That full-bodied, purely Rose laugh that shook her hair and showcased every one of her brilliant white teeth and that playful pink tongue. She made her way across the beach towards him, utterly unaware of the hundreds of staring eyes she was attracting, her attention solely focused on the dripping wet Time Lord.
“Doctor, you look like a wet rat.”
He glanced down quickly at the loose black-and-white striped shorts he’d cinched a belt around to keep up, the baggy short-sleeved swim-shirt that hung down at the collar and displayed more of his neck and upper chest than he was used to. “It’s hard to anticipate the sizes every one of your regenerations will need.”
“You look like a little boy playing dress up with his Dad’s clothes.” She reached up and ruffled his wet hair, which responded to her touch as if electrified and sprang out in every direction. “It’s cute.”
“Rose, you do realize that… bathing suit of yours is going to get us in trouble.”
“Why’re they called bathing suits, I wonder?” Rose mused aloud, spinning her parasol. “I mean, strictly speaking, a bathing suit is your birthday suit, right? Nothing at all.”
The Doctor felt the flush rush to his cheeks and was supremely grateful when the incoming wave knocked them both over and covered his uncontrolled reaction. And that the first thing he saw upon resurfacing was Rose Tyler flicking her wet hair back over her shoulder like something out of a mermaid fairytale.
“I should’ve known you were up to something,” he said reprovingly.
“Doctor, do you want to swim or do you want to lecture me?” Up came that dark eyebrow, out poked that pink tongue, and the Doctor knew it wasn’t worth quibbling about at that precise moment. He’d worry about the public outcry and scandal, the legal prosecution for indecent exposure, the fact that this little stunt would no doubt be mentioned in the newspaper gossip columns and perhaps affect the whole course of America’s fashion later.
Right now, at this very moment in history, in his particular timeline, Rose Tyler was in a bikini and wanted to play Marco Polo.