A/N: I was listening to some very old 80's tunes the other day, and this idea struck me like a rock. I know it is out of character.
I own nothing. The Doctor, the TARDIS and Rose Tyler all belong to the BBC.
He felt numb as he left the flower shop. Roses, a vase of them, in different colours. What is the ladies' name, sir. I don't know, all I have is an address. He paid the clerk and left. This was the…. Well, he didn't remember how many bouquets he sent lately. Too many.
The previous night:
The music was pounding and the lights dim. A lone man sat at a corner table with a pint of lager in front of him. He looked at the crowd that was gathered, looking for a particular type. She needed to be blonde, preferably bottled, with brown eyes. Her height should be proportional to her weight, but that wasn't incredibly important. She needed to have a joy of life. She had to be willing to hook up with a stranger for a night.
Somewhere in his mind he knew he couldn't capture what he had lost. Not even for a minute. Yet, he couldn't accept she was gone. Safe, but gone. He looked up from his beer and caught the eye of a woman that may just fit his criteria. He made eye contact, invited her over to the table he was at and offered to buy her a drink.
He was a professor, just in town. Sorry, his flat was a disaster, would she mind terribly going to hers? He made careful note of the address, but was sure not to learn her name. He couldn't pretend if he did.
He left a note saying, simply, "Thank you" and walked back to the blue box that was his home. He noted the TARDIS's disapproval and ignored it. He was an adult, the only one left of his kind and he would dictate his own behaviour. He took a shower, redressed and went out to find a flower shop. Always roses, but not the Rose he really wanted.