After completing my last TenRose drabble, I complained to my Rose - writing friend that I couldn't accurately portray her for the life of me.
Since I basically promised to take on any and all requests today, she then prompted me to write a Rose introspective. A TON OF AGGRESSIVE AFFECTION ENSUED. [ hisses still ]
At least she requested it to be NineRose, too. Man, do I love me some NineRose.
Hope you like it, too!
FORWARD AFTER HINDSIGHT
[ ninth | rose ]
She chews, deliberately slowly, hardly biting, on the end of a soft - fried, floundering potato chip, and wonders if she can bring herself to look at him other than in flashing sideglances that keep betraying he's now mostly unoccupied with her, wolfing at the fish and cheerily grinning and waving at any in - pub passerbys that give weird glances to the mismatch of the couple ( short - shaved bikerman, small dainty comfy blonde ) and the apparent disinterest hanging between them.
The latter notion is the furthest from truth ( though, hey, it isn't mismatched, it's just opposites attract! ) because it's, truthfully, the height of her still flowering interest that's beginning to embarrass her.
It was the way he held her hand.
She remembers everything beyond the window burning, out there, and, almost, inside, with her, herself, the heat, the fright, the scare when the non - human popped and the great guilt after — a little for she hadn't saved her, but moreso for the death of the treequeen that, in hindsight, she had perhaps shortly wished upon her, too ( or just her disappearance, her backing off, her not — ! … oh, never mind ) and immediately came to regret even before the inflammatory act.
It was stupid. He did not belong to her, nor did she belong to him — if anything, to Mickey, but she considered that over the moment she pecked his cheek and ran and ran and ran like today she learned she'd probably always have to do while she'd be with this man. It's running from danger and straight into safety, not into arms, just for he's not waiting — he's active, he's protective, and he's right alongside her —
And there's that hand again.
She blinks when she notices a set of snail - paced fingers catterpillaring towards her plate.
" Oi! " Comes simultaneously with her halfhearted slap. " You got a dish of your own? "
" Havin' that? " He seems to ignore her, and nods towards her cooling fries with only a high - up crinkle of his forehead and not the smile she expects.
" Yeah. " It's a bit dragged out and she finds herself coming to laugh again because it's so hard to imagine that even now he feels himself being tossed away in a miles - per - hour mill within the universe, stars blurring to golden airplane streaks upon the black and yet he can still boyishly concern himself with snagging up her food — he can busy himself with being so, so very human.
The hand does not move to retreat, but snatched out again to grab at the rim of her platter, and he's already pulled it back an inch or two when she manages to latch at his wrist.
" Doctor! " She does sound indignant, but fails to hide the amused nightsky corruscation of her eyes he now focuses his universe around to dizzy himself on nothing but the blonde.
" Sharin', Rose Tyler, " He declares, pompously and sagely, snags a chip, and holds it up to her. " Basis of caring. "
" But I'm payin', numpty! " She counters, " 'n I'm real hungry, too! "
Two half plates later, she has to admit to herself that she might be past the base, even — but, when he finds the curl of her palm again as they exit and he gleams at her ten steps past just sharing fish, she also finds that about that she doesn't reallycare.