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All Dressed Up

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"As turn-of-the-millennium parties go," the Doctor said blithely, "-- and believe me, I've been to more than my share -- this is by far the best. The start of the fifty-first century! Nothing like it before or since."

"D'you want to go?" Rory asked her.

"Why not?" Amy bumped shoulders with Rory; he nudged her back, companionably.

"There's just one thing," the Doctor added, as though he'd only just remembered. "There's a bit of a dress code."


The mens' wardrobe on the TARDIS was like a vintage costume shop, jumbled with clothing from different eras of history. Not just human history, Amy supposed; maybe some of these things had been worn elsewhere? She picked her way between two hanging racks, letting her fingers trail along the fabrics.

She pulled a long leather coat off a hanger and held it up to herself, considering, then sighed and put it back. The leather felt stiff and creaky. Probably no one had worn it in centuries. Maybe no one had ever worn it before at all.

There were just so many choices. Slashed velvet doublets and long robes and purple frilled poets' shirts. Seersucker suits. Denims and corduroy.

She was not thinking about Rory and the Doctor in the womens' wardrobe.

Fine, she was. She couldn't help it. Was the Doctor helping Rory decide what to wear? Would they shed their clothing as though it were nothing? Was Rory catching furtive glimpses? (Was the Doctor?)

Maybe the Doctor would help Rory into his clothes, like a seduction flowing backwards. Her face heated at the thought.

Amy pushed it out of her mind. They were going to a party. She had to find something to wear.


Brown trousers, high black boots, a soft maroon shirt open a bit at the collar, and braces. She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, pulling her hair back, and decided it would do.

When she exited the wardrobe, Rory was waiting. She could read his nervousness in his face, but he spread his arms and turned in a circle. "How do I look?"

"Smashing," she said, and meant it. He was wearing a denim skirt which came to just above his knees, a pair of stripey tights in blue and grey, and a turquoise jumper which clung nicely to his pecs. "Nice legs, you."

His smile was so adorable she had to kiss him. And then she realized something, and pulled back. "Oi, are those my tights?"

The sheepish look on his face was answer enough.

"You're getting me a new pair," Amy said, trying to sound stern but failing.

"Don't blame Rory; it was my idea," the Doctor said, breezing into the room.

Amy swallowed hard. Rory had a knowing look in his eye; he'd been waiting to see her reaction, she could tell.

The Doctor had chosen a long, slinky spaghetti-strap gown in shimmery grey-blue. The exposed shoulders almost made him seem naked. And it had a wicked slit along one side; that was good, he wouldn't have been able to walk otherwise, but it also meant Amy kept catching glimpses of his long coltish legs, all the way up to the thigh.

"Very nice," he said approvingly, looking her up and down. "Good colors on a ginger."

"You're not so bad yourself." Amy was proud of how normal she sounded. She was fairly certain her voice didn't give anything away.

Rory's calves were doubly enticing now that they were beneath her tights; she wanted to hike his skirt up and peel his tights down. And the contrast between the thin silky straps on the Doctor's shoulders, and his shoulders themselves -- strong and masculine -- made her want to run a fingertip along his collarbones. Followed by her mouth.

Wanting both of them wasn't new. But she hadn't realized that seeing them like this would make her want them more.

Rory, of course, could read her better than anyone. "Sure you're up for this?" Rory asked her.

Amy straightened her spine and threw her shoulders back. "I am if you are."

"Brilliant!" the Doctor said. "Oh, wait, almost forgot." He rummaged in his wee silk clutch and withdrew a small tin of lip gloss. "Come here."

Amy's stomach felt full of butterflies. She watched as the Doctor unscrewed the lid, dipped one finger in, and reached out to paint Rory's mouth. Rory's lips parted and she could hear him breathing. His mouth glistened obscenely.

Then the Doctor turned to Amy and she forced herself to stand still. His finger was cool against her lips. The stuff tasted faintly of raspberries. His eyes were smiling. Did that mean he knew what she wanted? Maybe he knew.

He withdrew his hand and sucked the red off the tip of his finger. Beside her, Rory turned a strangled sound into a cough. There was comfort in knowing that this was getting to him, too. Not surprising; she knew they were both carrying a torch. Not that it mattered, since the Doctor was apparently congenitally clueless. Or not interested. Or both.

God, when they got home from this party she was going to shag Rory senseless. She hadn't known crossdressing was going to be so erotic. Her braces tugged at her shoulders and breasts in an unfamiliar way; it was almost like being bound.

The Doctor handed her the lipstuff. "Your turn," he said. "Do me?"

That was it: he had to know. That was an invitation. Wasn't it?

Well: if it wasn't, he was just going to have to put up with the consequences of the double entendre, because she didn't think she could stand it any longer. "You asked for it," she said, and leaned in to brush her lips against his. A gentle touch, a slight back and forth.

Amy's eyes were closed. If he were confused, or angry, she didn't think she could bear it. When she pulled back, his lips were reddened and shiny, and he looked pleased. No: he looked hungry. Anticipation coursed through her.

Neither uninterested nor clueless, then; just biding his time until the right moment. Which was apparently now.

He turned toward Rory. "How do I look?"

"You've got a smudge," Rory said, reaching one hand out to rub at the corner of the Doctor's lips. The Doctor captured the hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. Amy saw Rory shiver.

Were they really going to do this? They were, weren't they. Who could have imagined that this was what it would take?

"Off we go," the Doctor said suddenly, bounding toward the door. "Wouldn't want to miss the fireworks."

"...right," Rory said, sounding resigned and amused all at once.

"I'm going to kill both of you," Amy muttered, but she took a deep breath and followed.


The party -- this party, Amy amended; on their short walk from the TARDIS to the gates of the house, it had become clear that there were parties happening all up and down the block; probably all over the globe -- was at a grand mansion with soaring blue columns. It was invitation-only, of course, though the psychic paper got them past the door guards easily.

The first room they entered was lush with orchids and lit with the diffuse light of an inconceivably vast spun-glass chandelier.

"Sir?"

Amy ignored the voice, too busy taking in the scene.

"Sir," said the voice more insistently at her elbow; Amy glanced over and saw someone in a tuxedo, wearing a glittering mask, holding a silver try of canapés. "Would you care for a samosa?"

Amy shook her head. "Not now, thanks."

"Sir," said the waitress, giving a little bow, and glided away.

"I didn't know she meant me," Amy whispered to her companions.

"We're the ladies tonight," the Doctor murmured in response, giving Rory a conspiratorial wink.

Amy had a flash of mental image -- the Doctor kneeling at Amy's feet to unfasten her trousers; Rory bent over the bed, Amy fitting herself with a strap-on -- and swallowed hard.


They wandered the house at their leisure. They passed three live bands, two of them comprised of more or less familiar instruments. One of them was playing something like swing music. She had no idea what to call the stuff the other two were playing, or how to follow along with the dance steps. But that was okay; just walking around with her men on her arms was fun.

New Year's parties in the fifty-first century, it turned out, were not all that dissimilar to New Year's parties in the twenty-first. Though this one had considerably more sparkle, and probably more wealth, than all of the parties she'd ever attended put together.

And this one had a greater number of obvious aliens -- lizard-looking people and cat-looking people and fizzy swirly things in glass jars which wheeled around the room and spoke in chirrupy voices.

Some of the costumes were rather scantier than theirs. But Amy didn't think anyone there was better-looking than her boys. And the slow burn of desire wasn't going away. If anything, it was getting stronger as she stole glances. Rory's arse in his tight denim skirt, his red lips shocking against the pale of his skin. The Doctor's neck and wrists, the fine lines of his cheekbones, his hips beneath his slinky gown.

"Ooh, that's outré," the Doctor murmured in her ear, and she followed his glance to a very pale man wearing buttery silk robes.

"Why, what's--" Rory began.

"Any other time of the year, a man dressed as a priestess of Konin?" The Doctor made a dismissive sound. "He'd be shot, probably."

"Good thing it's new year's eve, then," Amy said. Just then someone walked past them with tall flutes of golden liquid. "Is that champagne?"

It was. Or at least, it was close enough that her relatively uneducated palate couldn't tell the difference. And it was tasty. Amy snagged another glass as the caterer walked by.


From outside there came a hiss and a bang, followed by a chorus of gasps and oohs. "Shall we?" the Doctor suggested, and they followed the throng out into one of the mansion's courtyards.

The garden got progressively more packed. The Doctor stood behind Amy and Rory, the three of them pressed close together by the mass of partygoers. Amy craned her neck to watch the explosions, great firebursts and pinwheels of diamond and gold and scarlet, each one more stunning than the last.

During what had to be the final barrage of explosions people started blowing horns, shouting, kissing all around them. Amy glanced from Rory to the Doctor and back.

"So, it's a...new millennium," Rory said.

"I believe a kiss is customary," the Doctor added with feigned diffidence.

Oh, thank God. "Wouldn't want to flout the local customs," Amy agreed.

The Doctor kissed Rory first. Intent and intense, his hands sliding around Rory's head to hold him at just the right angle. Had she thought the fireworks were stunning? This was more so. Much more.

After a moment of watching, she couldn't resist: she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the Doctor's naked shoulder. He startled under her touch, breaking the kiss, and Rory followed her cue, kissing him on the other shoulder. Beneath her lips and tongue she could feel his double pulse jumping. His eyes fluttered closed, as though he wanted to focus on the sensation.

Presently her mouth found his. The Doctor, it appeared, considered kissing a full-body activity. Through the layers that separated them -- Amy's trousers, his silk-lined gown -- the insistent press of his erection was thrilling. Rory moved in behind her, a steady presence, his hands on her hips both exciting and a source of comfort.

The crowds around them were thinning, but they didn't move an inch apart.

"So," Amy said when they broke for air. The Doctor's eyes danced; she couldn't help grinning. "What now?"

"I think there are acrobats over there," the Doctor said, gesturing with his handbag. "The Babcorrian band is about to start playing, and one of the songs they premiere is going to be one of this century's biggest hits! And, of course, there will be poetry readings when the morning star rises."

"Of course." Rory sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

"Unless," the Doctor mused, drawing the word out, "you've had enough of the party."

"I think I might be ready to head back to the TARDIS, yes." Amy's whole nervous system was as bubbly now as the champagne.

The Doctor turned, offered both of them his arms, and they started walking toward the great carved gate.

"Would I be correct in assuming," Rory said presently, "that the party isn't over?"

"Oh, they'll keep going well past dawn," the Doctor said cheerily.

"He meant our party," Amy said, nudging the Doctor with her hip.

"Rory Pond, what do you take me for?" After a pause, he clarified, "that was a yes."


Travel with the Doctor was a perennial exercise in being reminded that no matter what Amy had imagined, the universe was vaster and stranger and more wonderful than she had known.

This was no exception.

She'd never imagined it unfolding quite like this. Tipsy on their togetherness, red paint smudging all three of their mouths because they couldn't stop laughing and kissing and groping their way into the Doctor's room.

Tucking her hands into the back pockets of Rory's denim skirt. His groan as their bodies made contact, her leg slipping between his, pushing his skirt higher. The Doctor tucking her hair to one side with surprising tenderness before kissing her neck. Falling on the Doctor's bed in a tangle.

The two of them collaborating on removing her braces and shirt and trousers, as though they had planned it. The strangely illicit-feeling thrill of being naked when both of her partners were still fully dressed. (And how.)

The Doctor kneeling between her legs, his slinky silver dress whispering against her calves as he bent to taste. His mouth and tongue, slow and delicate, driving her out of her mind. Rory's hands framing her face, the Doctor's hands holding her hips, Rory's kiss and the Doctor's kiss together stealing her breath.

The Doctor with his shimmering dress hiked up around his hips, his head flung back with pleasure as Rory sucked his cock.

Realizing she could give in to the yearning to scatter kisses across the Doctor's collarbones and chest, everywhere his shirt and tie usually concealed. The way his body trembled beneath her kisses and Rory's mouth. His quiet sigh of completion, more arresting and arousing than any shout.

Rolling Rory onto his back and kissing him, chasing the unfamiliar taste on his tongue, as the Doctor worked him with both hands through the thin fabric of his tights. Rory's low noises of increasing desperation, which reached a crescendo when they finally pulled down his tights to reveal his shining and swollen erection and he spilled in their hands.

Finding the Doctor hard again -- "Time Lord vascular system," he said, almost apologetically -- and moving in to pin him between herself and Rory. A body on either side of him; plenty of friction. Plus this way she could kiss him, and Rory could nibble at the nape of his neck.

Working a hand between their bodies so she could rub a thumb over the head of his cock, which was apparently as sweet a spot on him as it was on Rory, or maybe he was extra sensitive from having already come once; he gasped against her neck and splashed against her hip.

Staggering with Rory naked back to their room, still giddy with what they'd all just done.


When Amy and Rory entered the control room the next morning, the Doctor was half-under a bit of console, puttering around with some wiring. Not surprisingly, he looked like his old self: braces and bowtie and not a trace of lipstick or glitter anywhere.

"I haven't taken you two to meet Napoleon, have I?" he called across the room. "From the fifty-first century to the nineteenth; hope you don't mind a bit of whiplash."

"Looking for a slightly safer dress code?" Amy asked.

The Doctor coughed and kept his eyes on his work, but she was fairly certain he was blushing.

"Sure, whenever you want," Rory said. He was agreeing to the Doctor's itinerary, but it also sounded like an invitation.

Amy skipped across the room, feeling bubbly and gleeful. The sky clearly hadn't fallen, and all of time and space was at their fingertips. What could be finer?

"You can button up all you like," she told the Doctor, leaning against the console beside where he was working.

"Mm?" he said absently.

You're not fooling me, she thought, fondly. "Now we know what's underneath."

There was a shower of sparks, which made Amy wince, but the Doctor made a satisfied sound and pushed himself out from under the counter. "Perfect," he said, apparently ignoring the flirtation.

Though the look he gave the two of them was awfully promising. Maybe he wasn't ignoring it after all.

What were the odds, she wondered, of getting him into Victorian dress?

Well, a girl could hope. And even if they didn't manage it in France, she had a mind to spend some time in the womens' wardrobe seeing what else might be in the Doctor's size. There was no telling what she might find.