"The paper's sort of psychic," Rose says, snatching it from his hand.
"And how would you know that?" he asks, rising from his seat. He adjusts his jacket, buttoning the top button back up.
"Two things. One, I have a friend who uses this frequently, you know, for events and time-space travel and whatnot. And two, you just handed me a piece of paper telling me you're single and you work out," Rose says, leaning against the doorframe. "Can't let your mind wander as you hand it over."
Rose places it back in his hands, shrugging her jumper back on.
"Ah, and you've got a boyfriend, Mickey Smith, by the looks of it, but you're footloose and fancy free. Or, I think the words you used were available-"
"No way," Rose interrupts, rolling her eyes.
"And very," Jack finishes, tucking the paper away in his pocket. "But shall we try to get along without this psychic paper?"
"I think that'd be better in the end," Rose says, eyeing Jack, who's circling her around the cockpit. "I like your little spaceship. It's very. . .Spock," Rose quips, her hands above her, clutching a pipe.
"Who?" Jack responds, checking his watch.
"You ain't a local boy by the looks of it, then, are you?"
"Judging by your cellphone, your advanced watch, and the fact that fabrics you're wearing won't be invented for another two decades, I'm guessing you're not a local girl, either."
"That would be right," Rose says, climbing atop his chair. "So we're just flying - er, hovering beside Big Ben?"
Rose turns to look at him, and he's standing behind her, perched on the chair. "Hello," he murmurs, his arms around her shoulders.
"Oh, don't start with that again, Jack," Rose says, slightly irked.
"But yes. We are hovering next to the tower. And no one can see us. We're invisible, Rose," Jack says, nuzzling her neck.
"Oh, that's bogus. Someone's got to see us. I never told you my name, but hey, the psychic paper seems to hate me lately, anyway. You know, you're a tad bit cuter than most of the blokes I've met in this decade," Rose says, leaning closer to Jack.
"Oh, now you're flirting with me? You're tricky, Rose Tyler," Jack quips, stepping atop the chair. Rose turns towards him, tracing the muscles beneath his shirt. His hands drift lower, past the curves of her waist, past her belt.
"Be careful where your hands go, Jack," Rose flirts, bringing her lips close to his. "Wait, don't."
Then the airship jolts, sending them tumbling to the floor, Rose clutching the collar of his shirt, atop him. "I call this fate," says Jack, pulling her closer. They both close their eyes, their lips drawing nearer.
"Do you want to kiss me?" she asks coyly, her eyes fluttering open-shut, open-shut.
"Is this a test?" he asks,
"No," is her simple, airy response as she gazes into his dark eyes.
"Then yes," Jack confesses, twirling a lock of her golden hair around his finger.
She smiles, biting her lip. "It looks like things might work out, then," she whispers.
Their lips meet, and the world falls away. There is no Doctor, there is no TARDIS, there is no pesky mother, and there is nothing to care about. His finger trails along her cheek, and when his lips aren't touching hers, they're whispering sweet nothings.
"I think I'm going to hate it when you're right," whispers Rose, drawing a hand through his hair.
"And why is that?" Jack responds, desperately fighting to keep his hands from groping.
"Because this is fate, Jack."
But while they're exchanging glances - and saliva - in Jack's airship, the Doctor's pacing the London streets searching for her. "Rose!" he calls out, his eyes stained with worry. "Rose!" slightly louder, a tinge of fear in his voice. "Rose!" he shouts, sprinting back and forth on the street.
In the midst of his panic, a siren. "Bloody hell," he whispers. The London Blitz is at full height and he has nowhere to run. Screams taint the air, paired with explosions and the thick smell of smoke. London's going up in flames.
He's sure Rose is in the chorus of screams, playing a symphony, their last symphony. But the Doctor has never been one to give up.
More screams, louder screams: The melody. The part of the harmony is played by the whistling of the bombs and the drum beat the steady booming of the bombs hitting the streets, and the ear-splitting sounds of windows shattering.
This is a nightmare. The Doctor can't imagine how anyone got out of here alive.