He's more interested in the hostess in the main ballroom, not this young girl in his arms. Young and plain, her corset laced up much too tightly and her makeup on much too heavily. She's trying to impress someone and it takes him a while to realize she's really just trying to impress him.
He's very nearly royalty, after all. Certainly strange and mysterious. The physician to the Madame de Pompadour for the last four months. Seducing him means getting closer to the King, and the Doctor imagines that's her only goal. It's good that she's pretty, he'd have been far to irritated to enjoy himself otherwise.
She's far too stupid for the mistress of the King to even bother marrying off. Her favorite tactic, though she never discusses it; finding nobody husbands for her rivals and manipulating the situation to make them go away. But this girl? She poses no threat whatsoever. She's so tiny in comparison to the aristocrats in the main ballroom.
Which is probably why he didn't turn her away. He's in the same boat as her, he figures. Longs for something out of his reach.
It's been decades since that night of the Yew Ball for Reinette and she's been the lover to the King of France. For him, it's been the mere months that he's been here. His first night in France was spent running on sexual endorphins that had probably long since faded in Reinette's memory. While she's moved on, he still sits and wonders what might've happened if things had been more linear.
If maybe he could've done things more properly.
Tonight is yet another ball, and since he's been introduced at court he apparently has to go to all of them. His dress suit is scratchy and uncomfortable and the ballroom at Versailles is hot and stuffy with the August heat. The dog days of summer, he says, and no one really understands him. Rose would, but in his mind she's standing in front of those controls in stasis, unmoving until he makes it back to her. He even imagines Reinette might have plucked that colloquialism out of his mind but she's entertaining Louis, as is her career.
He needs some air, he says, so he turns and leaves the ballroom. Wanders a bit. Checks the torn tapestries like he always does. Stares longingly into the fireplace that failed to take him home. He eventually finds the sitting room. The sitting room, in his mind. The wallpaper's changed, something more modern than it was the night of the Yew Ball. The night they danced. The settee is still there, and that makes his lips twitch into a half-smirk.
He can still hear the music from the ballroom. The minuet. He hears the door creak open behind him and he very nearly smiles. Oh, it's not quite the same as before, but he can already imagine her standing there. Elegance and grace that never aged even when her human body did. He would turn around and manage to talk about his desires. How much he wants her---how much he loves her. She would smile primly. Something would be fixed. Something would work.
Of course, when he turns that girl is there. The one who laughs too loud and wears too much makeup. She's flashed him her fan many times on the ballroom and he ignored each advance, each press of the tip of the fan to her lips.
"Bon soir," she says as she shuts the door behind herself. He doesn't bother covering his disappointment. "Were you expecting someone else?"
He averts his eyes to a spot on the wall behind her. Someone else, yes.
Before he can control himself, he blurts it out. "Hoping, not expecting."
She smirks at his response. He can't possibly understand why, he just unintentionally insulted her. Well, intentionally.
There's no grace to this girl's seduction. No poise. No style. She's overly forceful and uses textbook tricks to try to catch his eye. She bats her eyelashes at him and he sees that they're rather spider-like with makeup. She reminds him of Rose, in that way. She has a jawline not unlike her, too. That's something, at least.
He finds himself appraising her as he imagines one might a slice of meat or a used core refractor cable. Or maybe how a wealthy man might pick a pricey whore. The shape of her hips, the shade of yellow in her hair. By the time he decides she'll do, he's thoroughly disgusted with himself. Is he really that lonely here? He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he is.
She's talking about something and trying desperately to sound witty. She really just sounds desperate. Desperate for placement? Affection? She doesn't appear to know how to stop talking. So, with a few words, he does it for her:
"You know, you don't have to talk." Again, she looks as flattered as if he'd told her she was his greatest love. She makes no sense. At least the smirk on Reinette's face when he says something sharp to her is because she knows she can tell him down. This girl doesn't have the wit or the poise to even try.
She opens her mouth to speak and he kisses her, which shuts her up at least.
She's tight and hard underneath his hands as he holds her hips. Her mouth is thick with waxy lipstick, so thick he can swear he can taste the shiny red. She kisses greedily, sloppily. It feels more like she's trying to consume him rather than kiss him. It verges on unpleasant, so he raises his hands from her hips to cup her face and control the kiss.
Just when she starts to kiss back how he wants, she pulls away, gasping for breath. She kisses his neck and tugs on his lace ascot. He feels her push him backwards to the settee.
She freezes. "What?"
To her, it's just a room. To him, it's…a place. He's not going to ruin that. She thinks they should go somewhere more comfortable. He wants to go somewhere not here. He takes her by the arm and pulls her roughly with him out of the room.
The hallway is dark, the candles that would've been lit now set up at the windows to keep the house looking bright. She giggles and follows him until they arrive at a dark corner a suitable distance from the room. He pushes her up against a wall and she gasps.
When did he become so…human? Seeking out comfort in false companionship? It's the frustration of being alone. Of being apart from the TARDIS. Of being unable to just leave whenever he wants.
Of watching the woman he wants from across the room and being unable to approach her. He doubts if he had the TARDIS and William Shakespeare on his shoulder that he'd be able to approach her regarding that anyway. Still, it's a frustration. And that Louis, so much less than him and yet he can have her.
The girl tries to run her hands in his hair and he pins them over her head against the wall. She's too thin and she smells too thickly of sugar and musk, but she's warm and she wants him. It's enough to make him ignore the rest. He kisses the side of her neck and her skirt just really gets in the way but she's warm and he doesn't have to think once he's inside her. It's not a mistake or a weakness, it's just an action.
He turns her face away from him. Her hair is blonde and he can imagine, just for a moment, that she's the woman he really wants.
He doesn't want her.
Afterwards she straightens her dress and reapplies her lipstick and he relaces his ascot and they eventually move back to the ballroom. Reinette's eyes burn into him the moment she sees him. She flicks her gaze from him to the girl. She always did figure things out much too quickly.
The girl is married off to someone the Doctor has never heard of not a month later.
Apparently she threatened someone.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten) (AU)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,377
Based on RP with ambitious_woman