thedreamer | open post;

He raises up on his toes and looks to the tree before he starts to walk again. "That sounds - peaceful," he admits, since it looks like this is going to be his new favorite place. Until he finds another one.

"Do you want to sit there now?"

"I'm not sure I want to sit this time," the Doctor smiles as he breathes in slowly, puffing up his chest a little before letting it out, just playful and relaxed. Happy. "I think I want to climb it!"

And he'll dart forward towards it now, shedding his waist coat haphazardly, kicking off his shoes and socks, shedding as he goes until he reaches the trunk. There, he untucks his shirt, begins to roll up his trousers to his knees, and then reaches for his bowtie, to begin untying it, intending to just drape it around his neck, wanting to be more casual in here.

There's a stirring in Thomas' chest as he watches him strip down just to climb a tree like a schoolboy. He smiles despite himself, and decides after just a moment to join him. He hurries to the trunk and reaches for the bottom branch. His clothes are more casual at the moment, and so he swings forward and places his feet on the trunk to help climb his way up. He might be healed, but his muscles are still learning!

The Doctor isn't far beyond him, and he delights in seeing him begin to climb along. It's a rather perfect climbing tree — it would be, of course — like the TARDIS taking care of him, and everyone else, in all the ways she can. Even if it's just to have a bit of fun. The branches are sturdy and thick, at least, but able to be held onto.

He reaches down to offer a hand, if Thomas needs. Otherwise, he'll watch in delight as he climbs up to join him near the top.

It's been a long time since he's climbed a tree, but his body seems to remember exactly how it's done. Pull up and balance, reach up and pull. Pull up and balance, reach up and pull. He places his feet against the trunk for purchase, but delights more in the ascent, even if he takes a few precarious wobbles.

But it's not long before he's by the Doctor, taking his hand if only to press a kiss to it.

"There you are," he grins, his absolute joy at the simplicity of climbing a tree with his Thomas so evident on his face. He squeezes his hand. "Where you should be, of course. Close enough to touch."

A warm, gentle breeze passes through, tossing some of the leaves about, fussing with his hair. He closes his eyes, tips his head up a moment, breathes it in, then looks at Thomas again. "Not bad, eh?"

"No, sir," he breathes. "Not bad at all."

He turns and watches the butterflies as they land on the leaves, switching places, maneuvering from place to place in the most beautiful of dances.

"I could stay here for days," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips.

There's a variety in here, too, at least a handful of different butterfly species. When they settle on the leaves, there's time enough to study the patterns on their wings, the beautiful coloring. He's seen them all before, but it's been long enough that he's just as fascinated all over again himself.

"It's sort of..." He looks around a moment at the space they're in now. Not massive, but not small. A perfect little microcosm. "Its own world. Easy to linger here. It can even rain — oh, that's a treat." He smiles warmly at Thomas, though. "If you're planning to stay for days, then we'll have to set up camp." He's fully aware it might have only been a figure of speech, but the Doctor is always quick to latch on to big ideas. He carefully shifts from where he is, though, and he leans forward suddenly to kiss him.

"Well, but how will - " And then the Doctor is kissing him and it's a perfect moment, a perfect time, and Thomas grips onto his shirt with tight fingers.

He shudders a little, thrilled and elated, and has to move one hand to grip a nearby branch.

"I thought we were going to - dance on the moon," he mutters when he pulls away to take a breath.

It's very, very easy for the Doctor to jump from one thought to the next, every excitedly, not slowing down. Which means, it's also very, very easy for him to unintentionally barrel over the wants and needs and desires of even the one he loves and adores.

So he's about to whimsically weave a whole day where they can do both all in rapid succession, and maybe Thomas would like that, but maybe he doesn't. So he opens his mouth to speak, he pauses, he weighs the moment, he reaches out to brush some of Thomas' hair back from his eyes. "There's time enough for both! So much time, but — I leave it to you. What we do first, that is."

Thomas tries not to look surprised. He tries not to feel surprised. Leaving it to him? For what reason?

Thomas reaches forward and kisses him again before he starts to climb down. "I like your plan. I have the energy for it. I have the life again. I don't want to spend it sitting around right now."

"And you absolutely should not," the Doctor grins, making his way down the tree with him, on the other side. He moves quickly, not like they're racing to the ground to beat each other, but he might seem to be moving faster than is really necessary. And when he just about nears the ground, he does a ridiculous tuck and roll that's a sort of clumsy recovery from almost falling. But he makes a show of it — he meant to do that, obviously — and he does a little bow, smoothing his tousled hair back from his eyes.

"Perfect eleven from the judges," he announces, like he's making perfect sense. He tugs at his undone tie, starts to button his shirt up again, then realizes he's about to change into something else for their drinks on the moon, and thinks better of it.

Thomas laughs at that, a genuine show of affection and warmth that seems to fill him from head to toe. He hurries forward and takes his hand, pressing a desperate, teasing kiss against his lips.

"You speak nonsense so often, I think I'm starting to understand it."

"The plan all along, of course," he grins proudly, like his nonsense-turned-to-sense is something he'd intentionally perfected. There is something that's lifted from his hearts, though, a heavy weight wrenched free knowing Thomas is well. Some last bit of fear and resistance to — so much, letting go. All he wants now is to love him, fully, in every way possible.

He wouldn't call it a date exactly and he has no purposeful sense of romance, but their drinks on the moon is precisely that. And he just wants to spoil him, all through the night. For now, he just kisses him back and leads him towards the wardrobe again.

"Black tie, white tie, yellow tie, polka dots and stripes — anything you want to wear."

"Black tie," he says with a smile. "I haven't had the occasion to put on any manner of fancy dress in - " He doesn't want to say forever, but that's the truth. He can't remember when he's dressed up and hasn't been a servant.

"But you - you in your bowtie."

He snaps his fingers playfully, biting his lower lip, doing a short spin; all of this very necessary as an accompaniment to his words — "Promise! Never far from a bowtie, me."

But truthfully, all he can really think about at the moment is how very much he looks forward to seeing Thomas in a fancy suit. The Doctor doesn't generally consider someone's appearance much, hardly caring for aesthetics, but this is very different. "Go on, then, surprise me. Come back all dashing." He pauses only a second before deciding that sounds like Thomas isn't already dashing, so he helpfully adds, "— er." Dashing-er. Definitely a word!

He shakes his head, ignoring the last part of that as he laughs and disappears into the hallway and to the wardrobe.

And there, he browses. He takes his time, searching through the different clothes before he finds a set he likes. He changes quickly, but finds a mirror so he can run a comb through his hair.

It's surreal, this. Finding these clothes, finding himself with this man. He's never felt so - wanted. Loved.

Seen.

He emerges a while later, his hands in his pocket and his shoes clicking against the floor.

The Doctor doesn't tend to give much consideration to his appearance, generally speaking. Of course, he cares about what he's wearing, he thinks he's quite fashionable, but that little pause in the mirror after he's changed into a suit, well — that's all for Thomas. Actually wanting to look good for him.

He's got a black bowtie, of course, and he puts on a top hat just for fun. He wonders if Thomas will like it — funny thing, that. Wondering what Thomas will think, what he'll say. A little thrill runs through him at the thought, and he smiles to himself. Maybe Thomas will take the hat off and play with his hair.

Enough waiting, though — he emerges, does a brief spin, stops and grins at Thomas.

"Look at you," he says warmly. "I know I certainly am." It's a silly joke, but he is looking thoroughly and with an abundance of love in his eyes, reaching out to cradle his cheek for a moment.

He leans into that touch, closing his eyes as he imagines what a pair they would make back in Thomas' time. If such things were allowed.

Maybe he'd take him to the back alleys. Maybe he'd pull him into one of the clubs that he always liked watching but never went into. The ones with the men who talked and danced and drank coffee.

He flushes and just pulls him into an embrace.

"There is nothing else to see," he points out.

The Doctor being the Doctor means his mind clicks over to immediately rejecting the statement because it's simply not true. "Of course there is," he insists. "There's you out of your clothes."

This is perhaps not the thing to say on the cusp of them heading out for a night of drinks and dancing, while currently embracing each other. He, however, doesn't even consider that yet. He's simply stating fact, automatically, without any filters on. He presses a kiss to Thomas' cheek, although at the angle he kisses him, it's closer to his jawline. And then he pulls back, reaching for his hand, lightly tugging, seemingly oblivious to what he's just said. "Right, yes, drinks! Dancing. So much dancing."

"Right."

There's him out of his clothes. And the Doctor out of his clothes.

And now Thomas is thinking about both of those scenarios and he really needs to focus on placing one foot in front of the other to follow him out for what? For drinks. For dancing? For romance.

His head's spinning a little, but he does follow. "Lead the way," he mutters.

Dancing! Drinks! Romance...everything's absolutely perfect. Except there's a fluttering in the Doctor's stomach, something pleasant and foreign to him all the same. An eagerness to be near Thomas, which isn't in itself unusual, but an eagerness for — no, no, they're going out. Right now. Before other thoughts take over.

He does at last lead him out of the TARDIS and around a corner, and they're not far from a party that's in full swing. There's a dance floor, a small stage, cozy tables, a little bar. There's not much, really; it's almost as if they'd wandered into a ballroom that's simply been displaced on the surface of the moon. Not Earth's moon, but a moon, and they're contained behind thin glass so they can breathe without care, but still look up and see the stars just above them. It has its own sort of magic, this moon, and the Doctor grins at him, holding his hand proudly as he leads him towards the bar, but then rethinks.

"Dancing first?"

"Oh," he breathes out and takes his hand, staring at the stars, letting them come into full focus. He can't believe what he's seeing. They're - beautiful. All of them. The stars speak to him in a way that he just can't describe. Maybe they always have. Maybe this is what he was supposed to be destined for.

He squeezes his hand. "Dancing," he agrees and walks towards the dancefloor.

Now, it cannot be said that the Doctor lacks any awareness of the type of dancing that should be done here, amongst the crowd of others embracing a more traditional and generally accepted style; the Doctor knows full well the type of dancing that's expected, assumed, perhaps even wanted and preferred.

But two things are true: He generally makes his own rules and they're always a little less than expected, and he can always be taught and persuaded to do something different, particularly if it's Thomas persuading.

So while the music is lively and a bit more upbeat at the moment, the Doctor bites his lip, grins, lets go of Thomas' hand and just moves his body and hands in a small circle around Thomas. It's...a form of dancing?

Thomas nearly erupts into laughter, stepping back away from him and just letting him dance. He does not think of joining in, either. This show is for him and him alone.

"Who taught you that?" he laughs. "And why?"

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