Blame Allison and Velvet Suits ‘R Us.
Based on this post.
Rose Tyler loathes him.
She loathes his ridiculous velvet suits, and that he can’t be bothered to at least put on proper shoes to match, and he strolls around in ridiculous white Chucks instead.
She despises the fact that he opened his specialty gentleman’s store directly across the street from her boutique, as though velvet menswear was enough of a fashion commodity to base an entire business around.
She hates that he hasn’t gone belly-up and slunk out of the neighborhood yet, back to whatever alien planet is populated by velvet-suited oddballs. She hates every single day she’s arranged the mannequin display in the front window of her own shop, and his “Velvet Suits ‘R Us” sign gleams at her from across the street in that unearthly shade of blue.
She can’t stand how he’s completely ignorant of real fashion — he stocks any and everything that catches his eye. On a whim. Without a clue as to what’s happening on the runways this year and next. And somehow there are enough gullible blokes in London to keep him in business, to get talked into purchasing three-piece velvet suits as though they’re being invited on some wild, thrilling adventure.
She dislikes his incessantly friendly attitude. The way he takes her insults as though they’re meant as constructive criticism, grinning like he understands something no one else does, and one particularly infuriating afternoon, winking in response. She especially dislikes the way her stomach flutteredand her cheeks grew warm. And she dislikes the dreams she had after that, too — every vivid detail.
She’s irritated by the fact that he decided to come to Fashion Week this year, and that he somehow managed to end up sitting just in front of her, so she was forced to stare at the lean, velvet-suited line of his torso and the wild chestnut shock of his hair for two full days. His hair, which is obviously as pleasantly startled about life as he is.
She’s put out by the way she wished he would turn around and talk to her a few more times than he actually did; and put out because he didn’t notice her dress, which happens to be the same unearthly blue color as his shop sign.
She’s mildly annoyed to discover, behind the BFC tent, that his hair is as soft as it looks, and he smells like nutmeg and aftershave.
And he’s quite a fantastic kisser.
She only minds a little bit, that he leaves his velvet waistcoat at her flat, and she has to cross the street and step foot inside his shop to return it to him the next evening.
The Doctor loves her.
He loves the pink and yellow halo that seems to follow her wherever she goes, shades of bubblegum and cotton candy that would be garish on any other blonde sparkling against her tawny skin, and the delicate heels she seems to sleep in.
He adores the way her tongue touches the corner of her mouth when she’s dressing and undressing the lithe mannequins in her boutique’s big front window. Stripping frothy concoctions of tulle and satin, sometimes tugging up an impossibly tight pair of shiny black leather pants, he wonders if she sees him watching, pausing in his own storefront, admiring the contrast of her sparkling, light dressed and his rich, heavy suits and adoring the way her body shapes and molds itself to determination and what his father would have called spunk, if his father was around to see this.
He besotted by her brisk and cool attitude, even as she makes excuses to come to his shop, to open those big brown eyes wide in what she thinks is an expression of horror but he knows is a look of fascination. He has already gotten under her skin and it makes him feel big and manly and confident in a way he thinks he’s only heard about in stories. Every time he greets her with a big grin and the offer of tea and she bristle, tingles go up and down his spine.
He’s delighted when he hears the click-click of her stilettos, her gait as headstrong as he’s ever heard, in the row behind him, and moreso when he hears her soft exclamation of surprise and annoyance. He says hello and sees the flush rise on her cheeks, then spread down her neck and to her chest and oh her chest it’s all on display, pertly greeting him from a tight cerulean cocktail dress and he turns away before he can be caught staring. He delights in her smell and her heat and the rustles when she shifts and the scratch of her pen as she take notes, but he minds himself not to stare to hard at her décolletage.
He’s pleased when he gets a much closer view after a couple of post-show flutes of champagne and then her breasts are pressed up against his chest, hot and soft through the incredibly thin cotton of his shirt (and have cotton shirts always been that thin or is this new?) and his hands are scrabbling at her waist and her hands are in his hair and he is very pleased, indeed, to know that that feels as good as he’s ever imagined. (All the times he’s imagined.)
He’s smug when her tongue plunges into his mouth and he confirms those big pouty lips are every bit as talented as he’s imagined, too.
He’s satisfied when he realizes he’s left his waistcoat her flat, that she didn’t chase him out the door to give it back and forget him, excuse that, and he’s head over heels all over again when she returns it, with a kiss, in his shop.
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