#fv6

Rose narrows her eyes at him. “What – you’d rather get your posh suit all flour-covered, then?” She points behind him at the TARDIS’ kitchen counter, which the Doctor knows without even having to look holds enough ingredients to bake enough holiday biscuits for a small Judoon army. “You do remember we’re  baking for mum’s Christmas party today, right?”

The Doctor closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I am well aware,” he says morosely.

“Right then,” Rose says, thrusting out the apron towards him once more. “Put it on.”

“No!” he says again. Deciding to go for broke, and figuring he can play the pouting game at least half as well as Rose can, he folds his arms in front of his chest and puts on his best pout, jutting out his lower lip in a way that has, on a few occasions at least, allowed him to get away with things he ought not have.

To his grave disappointment, however, his pout appears to have no effect on Rose whatsoever. 

“Please wear it?” she asks him sweetly, changing tactics.

“But it’s got gnomes on it, Rose!” the Doctor cries out, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “Gnomes!”

Rose looks down at the apron. “They’re elves, Doctor,” she points out. “Father Christmas’ elves.”

The Doctor scoffs. “Gnomes, elves. Potato, po-tah-to,” he says dismissively. “That thing is way too… too festive and jolly and… and domestic for me.”  He sniffs, and shakes his head one more time. “I’ll take my chances with getting my suit a bit dirty, thank you very much.”

“But I bought it just for you,” Rose says in a sly, slightly sultry voice she reserves for times she wants to go in for the kill.  She slowly walks – no, saunters – over to where he’s standing, her hips swaying just a little more than absolutely necessary and oh, gods, he knows this won’t be good. 

“Mum and I always wore Christmas jumpers and aprons and things when we baked for the holidays when I was a kid,” Rose continues. She’s standing very close to him now and places both of her hands on his chest. She looks up at him from beneath her lashes and he knows, with a sinking certainty, that he’ll be wearing that bloody apron in less than ten minutes flat. “It just won’t feel like Christmas at all if you don’t wear it, Doctor.”

She leans forward and presses first one, and then another, gentle kiss to each of his cheeks. He groans, gritting his teeth as he tries to hold on to what remains his resolve. Because he wants Rose to be happy – of course he does! – but that apron has dancing gnomes on it for Rasillon’s sake and a Time Lord has got to draw the line somewhere.

“Rose,” he whines, both wanting her to continue touching and kissing him like this and desperate for her to stop. “I… I just can’t –”

“Fine,” Rose says, sounding exasperated. “I’ll make a deal with you, yeah? I’ll agree to wear that thing you picked up for me on Vasilio 7 later tonight if you just wear this bloody apron for one hour.”

The Doctor’s eyes just about fall out of his head. “Wait a minute. You mean you’ll wear the… thing? The thing that comes with those… things?”

Rose nods, smirking. “Yes, Doctor. Promise.”

And that’s how the Doctor learned to stop worrying and love dancing gnomes.