Elvis

A/N: Originally written for the Oh She Knows "Picture Perfect" challenge on LiveJournal.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

--

He is well used to seeing her in dresses by now. In fact, just last week she'd rendered him speechless for a whole 2.37 seconds with a floaty red number for their appearance at the Emperor of Lacerta's five hundredth birthday ball - a dress which had later got them arrested for showing too much leg, a fashion crime which the legless Lacertians considered a death threat and which the Doctor had conveniently forgotten to mention as soon as he'd clapped eyes on Rose's ankles.

This dress, however, is so fun, so girly, so Rose, that he thinks he likes it even more than the swishy red chiffon and back-of-the-knees exposure of the previous dress. The TARDIS wardrobe has done herself proud.

Rose stands in the doorway, big pink skirt still bouncing around after her steps towards the room, glittering and grinning across the console at him. "I don't know about you, but I sort of like it. So don't laugh," she warns him, tongue between her teeth to hide her genuine concern for his reaction, patting down the sides of her skirt with her hands and bending her knees a little to make the fabric move again. She pushes her hair - done up so big that he wonders if she's got something stuck underneath it - awkwardly behind her ears.

Don't laugh.

"Would I?" the Doctor grins, jumping off the captain's chair and turning around so he can get a good look at her without craning his neck. He meets her half way across the room and holds a hand out above her head, twirling her around when she laughs and gladly accepts. The skirt swirls, if possible, even bigger.

"You haven't mentioned my hair," he points out expectantly after a moment, rocking on his heels as she flops down onto the chair he vacated, obviously impatient for her opinion. Shoulders shaking, Rose looks to the floor before meeting his eyes again, her own full of affectionate mirth.

"I was tryin' not to."

He pouts like a petulant child denied a toy. "I spent ages getting it to stay in one place. Probably destroyed the entire New Martian rainforest with the amount of tree gel I used. Isn't it – "

"No," Rose says quickly. "It's great. I like it. Wasn't expecting you to dress up, 'sall." She smiles. "Time was I'd be lucky if you even changed your jumper."

"Well, I'm a not so new-new man, now," he reminds her, serious tone undermined by his wide grin. "And I've got hair. Good hair. Have to make the best of it."

"No arguments from me," Rose tells him lightly, cheeks ever-so-slightly pink.

The Doctor suppresses the urge to run a hand through his painstakingly-placed hair. "Go on, then," he prompts, holding out a hand to help her up off the chair then nudging her towards the door with his shoulder. He waggles his eyebrows. "Get out there. Whole world's waiting for you, Rose Tyler."

--

They do see Elvis, in the end. It's probably the best thing to get face-sucking aliens off their minds.

He makes her change out of her dress, though, because what he sees when she's in that outfit certainly isn't pink and girly and fun anymore. She ends up going to an infamous '50s concert in her tshirt and trainers, and he's never had more trouble keeping his eyes off her.

"It's OK," she tells him eventually, catching him on his twenty-second obvious glance. "I had to stare in the mirror for ages when we got back to the TARDIS."

He doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he pretends to examine the lighting equipment while staring at her feet out of the corner of his eye, thankful she's changed out of the pink shoes he'd all-too-recently seen peeking out from under a blanket hiding a Rose with no face.

There's a short man on the stage with a booming voice, waving an arm to encourage the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls..."

Elvis is announced but still absent, building up a few seconds of suspense before making his big entrance. In the midst of all the screaming and clapping and stomping of feet, Rose reaches over and kisses the Doctor's cheek. "I never said thanks," she explains, close to his ear as the noise dies down, one hand resting just above his knee to keep her balance as she leans over. "For doing your thing, savin' the day. The Doctor to the rescue, and all that." If she were being honest, she'd tell him that his anger had scared her, a little - he'd seen it, earlier, in her face as he'd explained what she'd missed.

But she doesn't mention his anger, his obvious sense of frustration and uselessness at her temporary fate. Instead, she drops her voice and says something the Doctor isn't expecting. "For bein' so worried about me, before."

He's going to protest, but the look on her face as she pulls back to her own seat makes him stop. Her hand stays where it is.

"I couldn't exactly hear anything and it's not like I was thinking while I was stuck in there – " She pauses, suppressing a shudder, and he plucks her fingers from his knee and pushes his own through them, frowning, waiting for her to go on. "But afterwards… I sort of knew what had happened, you know?"

Music blares out all around them and she turns to the stage as the first song begins, as though the conversation is all over.

"Rose."

She looks back, clearly expecting some silly titbit of information on Elvis' secret life as an alien despite the Doctor's serious expression and his hand still in hers.

"You never have to thank me for worrying about you."

She nods, brushing the weight of his statement off. "Part of the job, I know. Jeopardy friendly, right? I remember."

The Doctor looks over to the stage for the first time since Elvis came on, giving her hand the slightest of squeezes as he does so. He settles down into his seat, suppressing a smile. "Wouldn't have you any other way."