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haughty_alpha and <lj site="livejournal.com" user="5th_doc
It was really fortunate Data remembered where either of their rooms were. It wasn't that his memory wasn't functioning, persay, but it was random fact over random fact, tumbling in an illogical order that trumped his processes. When he opened the door, he barely registered the cat skittering off to hide herself in the bathroom, suitably dosed so that her feline paranoia was getting the better of her and she wanted nothing to do with these two legged fiends.
He dropped their cricketing gear near the couch in the main area, oddly clumsy, and if he hadn't been holding to the Doctor to counterbalance his own weight.
"We have a mystery to solve," Data declared sternly, holding up his tricorder so they both could look at it. "But we can't until Avon is here. He needs his mustache." This was a fact. No mystery could be unravelled until Avon was fully mustachioed and prepared to provide... something. What was it.
And where was his pipe and smoking jacket?
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And then he hooked a finger under one of the Doctor's braces again (as they were delightfully springy) and snapped it. This time though it was at an angle so he ended up tugging it off his shoulder. Data did have an unfair advantage, being so far in the lead, so he undid his vest. Wasn't there an illness where most of the victims had ended up naked because they lost their inhibitions?
"Wait," he said the word slowly and carefully, even as he shed his vest off to the side. They were drunk. He needed to fix this. The last time he-
Oh yes, he hadn't fixed it all, had he? But he'd managed through at least 12 sexual techniques.
Just in case, however, he quickly unfastened his studded leather tunic, shuffling out of it to reveal a plain, thin black vest beneath. "I think I win because I have the heaviest clothes," he announced. "And you do so squeak," he added to the Doctor.
"N-never!" he squeaked again, tone defiant, chin dropping as he noted the sorry state of his braces. One on his shoulder; one off. They were asym...asim...they weren't entirely the same. His gaze darted between the two sides, as he attempted to remember which way they ought to be. On the shoulder seemed correct, but off the shoulder was so much more comfortable that he defied convention (aha! The Doctor, always the renegade!) and slipped the other one off.
Which slid the waist of his striped trousers a little down his slim hips, but he didn't mind very much. At least the two sides matched! But was he losing the game? No matter. It wasn't...cricket so it didn't matter.
Cricket.
There was something...and then it was gone. The bag of gear so far, far away on the couch.
No matter.
He noticed the Doctor had red stripes on his socks. "He probably has underwear. I would not be surprised if it were striped." He thumbed toward the Time Lord.
He suddenly acquired the most pitiful doggish look. "...Oh no... Doctor, I lost your cricket ball."
"Undergarments," Avon said, "are reserved for people with less tight trousers." He gave a definitive nod.
Then he looked at the Doctor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I'll take that bet," he said. "What will you bet me that they're striped? And...why does that remind you of cricket balls? Do you keep your balls in your underpants, Doctor?" He dissolved into snickers.
"No." He rolled lazily onto his stomach, wriggling and arching and slipping his right hand into the accompanying pocket of those famously striped trousers. "My balls are here." And he tugged out a cricket ball from the pocket.
And another.
And another.
"Di-men..." hic "Di-men..." hic "Bigger on the inside." And the last of the cricket balls were removed and tossed onto the floor next to him.
A bit of his underwear was visible at his waist, though. Just enough to tease, and enough to prove that yes, his boxers were striped.
Yes.
Stripes.
He gave Avon a confirming nod, fingers still hooked into his waistband. "These are very extraordinary pants."
"Huh," he added, as Data made the confirmation. "All right. I lost the bet. What's my forfeit?"
Extraordinary pants, eh? He could believe that. "Extraordinary how? Are they bigger on the inside as well?" Avon was coming dangerously close to giggling, and if that happened, hell would freeze over and stars would explode. He didn't want to be responsible for the heat-death of the universe, so he tried very hard to keep a straight face.
But no more cricket balls.
And those cricket balls were taking up most of the Doctor's attention. He lined the four objects in a neat row on the floor, and he shut one eye to stare down the line and make certain the row was perfectly straight.
Though it would probably have been better if he'd stared at the line with his open eye.
"Everything is," he said. In answer to what, he had no idea. It just made sense to say it.
And why was his backside suddenly cooler than it was before? How odd.
Everything is.
Oh, yes, he'd forgotten the Doctor was psychically sensitive. Obviously more must be striped there. Did that apply to androids?
"Does that apply to androids, Doctor? And I suspect your vest would do nicely, Avon."
"All right," he adding, shrugging. He was not especially shy about his body. "Here we go." And he scrambled out of the vest, pulling it over his head, leaving his hair standing up like a started cockatoo's crest.
He lifted his gaze in time to watch Avon remove his vest, letting out a sputtering giggle at the state of the man's hair.
"You'll need a comb," he said helpfully, again wriggling the lower half of his body to work his hands through his pockets, though this was making his trousers slip down farther and farther. The waist sat now at the peak of the curve of his backside.
Ah, that was it! He needed to get into his smoking jacket so he could deduce their way out of this mess.
"I believe you have emptied your pants, Doctor, save for shaking them out..." Data stood, wavered, and navigated through the obstacle course of decreasingly clothed otherwise very intelligent men littering his floor as he attempted to make his way to the closet.
"Where are you off to?" he demanded, of Data. "Sit down and take something off, or it'll be embarrassing."
They weren't lined up with his waist!
He tried to wriggle back into his braces, but the stretchy strips wouldn't cooperate, and his coordination was impaired, and Data was being quite distracting by not being in a state of undress.
"Yes. Please," he said to Data, agreeing with...whatever Avon had said. He was still struggling with his braces, and getting himself tangled in them in the process.
But ah! He'd found said smoking jacket in the closet, and chose to wear it the "comfortable" way. Where it was more of a robe than a smoking jacket, and he rid himself of his shirt and started undoing his pants while he was at it. At the mouth of the closet too, as for some reason his modesty protocols had long since vanished.
He watched in appreciation as Data removed his clothes. "It's getting hot in here," he murmured.
"Hot?" he asked, brow drawn in slight confusion. "Haven't no-noticed an increase in temperature? In fact, it's rather cool. Hmmm...I seem to have misplaced my pullover."
He stood, trousers desperately attempting to cling onto those slim hips, and failing. And revealing that his boxers were in fact, striped.
"I believe it is an average Earth climate temperature of twenty-two degrees." Oh! He had a belt, didn't he. That would make a suitable lead. He shrugged on the robe and hunched down to remove the item from his discarded pants, still in his lonely black socks and neglecting to close the waistband of his garment. Now where had the Doctor left his pullover? He hadn't been wearing it in here, had he?
"Oh, yes. L-lovely," he remarked. Then again, everything in the universe was lovely in its own way. The appearance of the sky after a brief summer storm, the arrangement of flowers in a bouquet. And thus, Data's form followed suit.
Even if he hadn't one on.
Which made the Doctor snort rather rudely at his own private joke.
"Quite lovely. I hadn't...n-noticed it before. You're quite a strapping, ah, specimen, Data."
"Thank you, Doctor. And you have a very nice... Bit of leg." He motioned generally to where the Doctor's pants had drooped down. He had an athletic shape to his back and posterior too, but it was often (and still was) concealed in stripes. As Avon's was still in tight... very tight leather.
"...Am I losing?" he asked as he wrapped the belt around his hand, roaming over to the both of them though he'd forgotten what he wanted it for.
"I have no idea," Avon said, his gaze falling on the belt. "Are you intending to punish the loser with that? Because if you are," he gave an airy little snicker, "I don't mind losing."
With a bit of sway in his hips, he managed to tug his trousers down to his ankles, stepping neatly out of them. Or nearly neatly.
"I think," he said, with authority worthy of telling off the Master, "that I am still in the running for the contest." Orange and red striped boxers were on full display, offering a grand view of his Time Lord assets.
Wait Wait! He should be... fixing things. And it was hard to fix things when there was half his attention roaming off to places that they should not be like... leather pants that sorely seemed they needed removing or the way stripes seemed to be accentuating particularly interesting areas on his increasingly attractive friend. And did the Doctor mean that he was still in the running to win or to lose?
"You still have a shirt and boxers," he announced. Did socks count? He looped the belt around the Doctor's neck, sliding the leather through the buckle and tugging him back down to the floor with Avon.