A/N: Figured it had been a while since I wrote Nine, so here's some Nine/Rose fluff. Enjoy!
Allons-y!
. . .
Pet's Names
The Doctor isn't a dog person.
At least he doesn't think he's a dog person. He's been in this body only a few months and has only recently determined on how he likes his tea let alone the pushy, pint-sized canine who, when not busy yapping at him, engages itself in wriggling under the console, coating his ship in fur that the creature doesn't even have the common courtesy to apologize for.
K9 would have. Then again, K9 also had no fur to shed and compacted his waste product into neat little odorless cubes. (If he can track down Sarah-Jane again, maybe he can convince her to trade.) It's no wonder none of his previous regenerations ever took a pet on board.
Then again, none of them ever had to face saying no to Rose Tyler. Her puppy-dog eyes were more devastating than those animals to whom the nomenclature belonged.
I never had any pets growing up, she said. Did you?
"Nope."
Leant against the chainlink fence surrounding the laboratory, the Doctor cast a wary eye over the assembly of overexcited canines surrounding his companion. He was all for shutting down another sadistic animal-testing facility (run entirely by humans this one, a race whose constant capacity for both goodness and cruelty never failed to amaze him), but this left the question of where their several-dozen slobbery charges would go next. From the way Rose was hugging each and every one as though she never wanted to be parted, and the not-so-surreptitious looks she kept sending his way, she no doubt thought the TARDIS a suitable home for her new friends.
He should've just let her keep Adam.
The council didn't allow animals, Rose continued, frustratingly unperturbed by his monosyllabic response. Something about making too much of a mess, but maintenance was shit anyway. Her brows drew together in annoyance at this childhood grievance but then a dribbling labrador loped over to her and promptly drenched her face in drool before dashing away again.
Mum let me have a goldfish for a little while, but he died. Got stuck in the water filter.
The Doctor snorted. "That's Earth fish for you. Rather go belly-up than take a chance. You want something hardy, I can take you to the planet Nemo. Breeds the best fish in the universe. 'Course, it's mostly for eating, but I'm sure we could convince them to part with a couple."
That's alright, said Rose. Kinda grew out of them after Buddy. Bit . . . wet, I s'pose. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, coming off with a patina of dog drool just as a terrier braced itself on her chest, tiny tongue lolling. Rose laughed, hoisting the puppy up under its' front paws to be eye-to-eye. Oh, aren't you a sweetheart? Yes, you are.
"You named your fish Buddy?" asked the Doctor.
Ooh, and you've got these little white splotches on your paws, too. Just like little socks. Is that your name, Socks? Is it, sweetheart? What do you think, Doctor?
Not sure if he was more annoyed that Rose was growing attached to the dog - he's sat through enough feel-good films to know that naming the pooch gives it tacit permission to follow the reluctant protagonist home and next thing you know there's a montage with said reluctant protagonist playing Frisbee and checking for fleas, going on long walks with the optimistic protagonist/Love Interest™ - or the monopolization of her attention that this attachment caused (peevishness only increased by his inability to determine the difference), the Doctor only repeated, "Buddy?"
Hmm?
"Your fish."
Oh. Oh, yeah, Rose ducked her head, cheeks going endearingly pink. Thought if I proved I could take care of a fish, then they'd grant me special permission or something. I took all of these pictures of 'im with Mum's Polaroid, him swimming and me cleaning his bowl and stuff, was gonna send them to the council. I was a bit. . . .
"Creative?" offered the Doctor at the same time Rose said delusional. She laughed, a flash of teeth and tongue that made the Doctor's hearts skip a beat and his legs go weak.
Which made saying no when Rose asked to bring the newly-christened Socks along with them to Nemo (if she couldn't have a dog, the Doctor reasoned, maybe a fish would placate her) much harder than it should have been.
Why not?
Because she'd not even lived here six months (five months, two weeks, one day, eight hours, and twenty-six minutes) and not only were companions only invested with the authority to invite others aboard after two years (you offer an IRA, too? asked Rose) but he had bent the rules for her already with Adam. And a dog was a different matter, entirely: Section X, subparagraph F of the Companion's Handbook, discussing Limits of Domesticity which had already been breached with her puffy, pink throw pillows in the media room.
Well, I never would've if you'd said. 'Sides, I don't see you complaining about 'domestics' when I bring you your cuppa every night.
Because the TARDIS was a delicate piece of machinery and he wasn't about to give a dog the run of it, wandering about and weeing wherever the mood struck.
You're one to talk - smacking her with that mallet anytime you get a bit cranky.
Because while yes, Socks was certainly adorable, a shelter or a rescue would be a far better home for him than a bigger-on-the-inside spaceship whose inhabitants laughed in the face of death and danger on a daily basis.
That one stumped her and, for a few exhilarating seconds, the Doctor thought he may have won. Unfortunately, Socks chose that moment to request a belly rub, grinning up at Rose, forelegs waving in the air and the back extended across her lap. Even from here, the Doctor could see where portions of the dog's fur had been shaved away, and a few healing injection marks; he purposefully averted his eyes from Rose's when she looked back up at him but it couldn't drown out her voice, wobbly and wavering, that sent his hearts plummeting to somewhere around his ankles.
Please, Doctor? He's all alone, too.
He hopes his next regeneration is blind and deaf; it might interfere with the whole savior-of-the-universe lark, but at least it will make refusing Rose Tyler marginally easier.
"I find a puddle anywhere on this ship and it's into the vortex with you," the Doctor threatens through a mouthful of pliers. Rose is usually his self-designated gopher, hand hovering uncertainly over the open toolkit (bright blue with slate-gray trim, she insisted he buy it last time they were in B&Q), passing along the pair of orange tweezer-things or the blue thingamabob while wondering aloud why he can't just use his sonic to fix everything, anyway.
But Rose has been on the phone with shelters for the past forty-eight minutes, sorting out temporary homes for the twenty-seven newly-made strays. After seven of these minutes, the Doctor determined that any potential attack would be forestalled by her retinue of guard dogs (who, if they didn't bite, would at least stand a chance of drowning the assailant with slaver) and retreated, not a little sullenly, to the TARDIS. Inexplicably, Socks had followed. Were it not for the thought of Rose's reaction - wounded eyes and a pouty lower lip to boot - the Doctor would have shut him in one of the old storage rooms already, muting his shrill yips and clicking claws.
The Doctor's head swings up, scanning the room, completely devoid of yapping and clacking. Racking his brain, he can't recall seeing hide or hair of their new passenger for at least five minutes.
Impenetrable or not, there's a plentitude of danger to be found aboard the ship that any jeopardy-friendly companion (up to and including his current pink-and-yellow one) can fall face-first into within five minutes. (On Rose's third day, he had to rush her to the infirmary after she pricked her finger on the one poisonous-to-humans plant in the entirety of the TARDIS gardens.) For a dog, it must be half that.
And for this dog? He wouldn't trust him thirty seconds alone in the TARDIS.
"Even the swimming pool." He crouches to peek underneath the console, searching for a flash of white paws and black snout. Rose will be upset if he lets her new pet electrocute himself and an upset Rose isn't one who can be reasoned with when he tries to explain that no, he can't take her home because their new guest irreparably damaged the TARDIS's time rotor with his prehumous urination so how does the forty-third century sound instead?
Paranoid, the Doctor taps a few buttons on the dashboard, heaving a sigh of relief when everything comes up normal. He sets the default to 2006, just in case.
"You'd better man a mop there, Socks," he adds, straightening and wrinkling his nose at the pseudo-rhyme. "Don't keep deadweights on board, me. Just ask Rose."
Ask me what?
Masking the worst of his start with an impressive-looking flick of a switch, the Doctor watches Rose from the corner of his eye as she heads up the ramp to join him at the console, Socks trotting along beside her.
"There you are!" He points accusingly down at the dog who perks up his ears at the censure. "Snuck out, did you, you little bugger? Try that in the vortex and you know where you'll end up?"
Socks tips his head to the side, making a querulous noise in his throat, mocking him.
"Tons of tiny, furry atoms, that's where." The Doctor answers his own question, flapping his arms to demonstrate the immensity of the hypothetical discombobulation. "Scattered all through time and space and you'll never be able to whiz on another fire hydrant again. How's that?"
Socks barks.
The Doctor glares.
Brows raised, Rose's eyes flick between him and Socks, expression caught somewhere between amusement and, for whatever reason, something close to regret. I'm sure he didn't mean to worry you, she says with a half-smile that is sorely lacking in a peek of pink tongue.
"Worried?" The Doctor snorts, affecting an overly indignant tone that Rose is sure to see through. "I wasn't worried." When this fails to produce the usual quick-witted retort or (at the very least) a half-stifled giggle, he drops the act. "Alright, what's wrong?"
Rose sighs. The police are here.
"All those parking tickets finally come back to haunt you?" He tsks at her, frowning in mock-sternness. "Rose Tyler, hardened criminal. Who'd have thought?"
Nah, that's Mickey. Always running out of money to feed the meter. Her lips twitch and the Doctor gives himself a few points for that. He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, muttering something about idiots who don't deserve driver's licenses (here, Rose is supposed to interject that he's one to talk, dropping her off twelve months later than planned) but, nibbling at her lip, she doesn't appear to be listening.
Just came to get the psychic paper, she explains. The rescue's on their way, but in the meantime . . . thought it'd be best to look legit. One of them's already giving me shifty eyes.
"What for?" he demands, disbelieving. How suspecting Rose Tyler of any wrongdoing isn't yet illegal on this planet is an absolute mystery to him.
Rose turns her eyes to the floor, swallowing hard. Turns out Socks' name is really Rex. He belongs to this guy's niece. He ran away six months ago and this lot must've picked 'im up. Sensing he is the subject of conversation, Socks paws at her leg and she reaches down to scratch behind his ears. He keeps on asking how come's he's following me all over the place, like I'm the one who abducted him. She abandons her lip, which has started to bleed, in favor of one of the navy strings dangling from her hoodie.
"Maybe we should," the Doctor suggests, a blatant refusal of the easy out she is giving him, anything to take away that pained, kicked-puppy look in her eyes. It's a chivalrous gesture, something he would never have done for any other companion; at the worst he expects a token objection, not Rose's fierce rebuttal.
How could you even say that?
Despite himself, the Doctor flinches and, from the way Rose extends a conciliatory hand (the other still rubbing behind Socks'/Rex's ears), she notices. He imagines his expression must mirror that of the lab dogs, refusing to venture out of their unlocked crates, shying away from human touch, afraid of getting too close and being hurt again. He hates himself for it.
"Fine." Shoulders stiff, he stalks around the control panel, back to her. "Go out there and give Rex back. See if I care."
He doesn't even look like a Rex. What human with an ounce of sense would saddle their one-stone dog with a name better suited for some savage behemoth? But here he is, trying to find the correlation between homo sapiens and intelligence, a losing battle in and of itself.
He still belongs with his family, Rose snaps back. I know you're used to just whisking people away with you, but that's not how it works in the real world, alright?
She slams her way out of the TARDIS, Socks/Rex hot on her heels.
It's another excruciating thirty-four minutes before she returns. Slumped in the jump seat, wiry white hairs clinging to his jumper, he doesn't turn to greet her. It will only hurt more if he does.
"Do you want to go home?"
What? She doesn't sound angry anymore, just tired, and that only annoys him more.
"It's not a hard question, Rose. Do you. Want to. Go home?"
Depends, she says. Do I have a choice in the matter?
"You always have a choice," he says stiffly. "I just thought, after today . . . you might want to spend some time with your family. Jackie, Mickey, what's-her-name . . . Shareen."
Pulling a pensive expression Rose doesn't reply, but the look she shoots his way is just a shade too perceptive.
Can we go to Nemo?
"What?"
Nemo, she repeats. Can we go there?
"Why?"
I wanted to get a fish. You were all on about it a couple hours ago.
But a couple hours ago was before Socks/Rex. Before their argument. Before Rose reminded him that home would always be back on the Powell Estates and this jaunt through time and space was little more than an extended vacation.
"You don't like fish, Rose."
I never said I didn't like 'em, Rose corrects. Just that they were a bit wet. Thought if we couldn't have Socks, we could have a fishy version of 'im. That is, she adds, tongue poking out from between her teeth, if it doesn't violate Section Q, paragraph 800 of that handbook or anything.
Hearts soaring, the Doctor can't stop himself from grinning back and quickly sets to work rushing round the console, pushing levers and pressing buttons.
"Your wish is my command."
If he stops, he will have to hug her (that's what they do now, she's made him into a hugger) and he doesn't trust himself to stop at a hug, doesn't trust himself not to kiss her, to bury himself inside her and have her against one of the coral struts, Nemo an afterthought. But she's young and beautiful and so, so good and he's old and bitter, a killer of his own kind; he would make a better Dalek than a boyfriend.
So he offers her a pet fish and all of time and space instead.
. . .
A/N: Love it? Hate it? Let me know in a review!