A/N: Written for the "fall weather" prompt provided by the Fall Fic Fest over on Tumblr. Also, while this is several days late for Ficlet Friday, I did incorporate the timepetalsprompts bonus, "a surprise."
. . .
A Rainy Day
When it rains, it pours. The Doctor glares up at the steel-gray sky then down to the steaming engine, hot to the touch even in five-degree weather. He mimes a thumbs-up at Rose, warm and safe inside the car at his request, and wonders how he could have forgotten his morning banana today of all days. Brain food when a stomachful of pumpkin and apple-cinnamon muffins fails to provide the answer to this automotive puzzle. The sonic would be perfect in this scenario but of course that's undergoing updates from R&D to prevent any more exploding office appliances.
An eighteen-wheeler speeds by, drenching the Doctor in muddy water and soggy cigarette butts. Shaking his head like an irritated dog, he shoots Rose two thumbs-up just like he has planned the past worsening half-hour and will now send them on their way in a feat of heretofore unseen brilliance. In deference to this show of manliness, Rose waits another five minutes before calling first a tow service and then a cab. Teeth chattering and usually magnificent hair plastered to his scalp, the Doctor squelches after, leaving a slippery trail in his wake that culminates in a puddle drip-drip-dripping from the ends of his hair and cuffs of his too-tight blue suit (this one with white pinstripes instead of red) onto the floor of his and Rose's office.
"Here," Rose shoves a T-shirt and a pair of denims into his arms, "put these on."
For no apparent reason, the shirt has a picture of a monkey in a prison jumpsuit on it and the trousers, which look to be an even tighter fit than his suit, are bright orange. The entire thing looks ridiculous, an unwitting insult stacked atop the already precarious pile and only the thought of Rose's wounded expression stops him from tossing the whole ensemble into the gathering puddle at his feet.
"This isn't my suit." He tries to sound nonchalant but, as Rose tucks a bit of hair behind her ear, looking repentant, is afraid it comes off more forlorn.
"I know, I'm sorry." To her credit, she actually looks it. "Mum went shopping your first week back. She thought you could do with a new wardrobe."
The Doctor snorts. "Of course she did."
"I'm sorry," she says again. "You know Mum. Wouldn't take no for an answer. Most of it's in the closet at home. Not that I'd expect you to wear it, just thought this one was kinda cute."
"Cute?"
"Dorky, I dunno. Goofy. Something you might like."
Yes, because that's exactly what he is in this world, isn't it? Not the Doctor, just the hapless, cute boyfriend who has to rely on his future mother-in-law for fashion advice because he got drenched attempting to jump start his car on a bitter Monday morning.
"Saving it for a rainy day, were you?" With ill grace, the Doctor strips off his suit jacket and stalks, as best he can with feet slipping in his flooded Converse, into the office's en suite. Rose knocks on the closed door a second later.
"Doctor . . ."
"Rose?" He mutters a Gallifreyan epithet under his breath as he tries to part henley from damp skin.
"You know we have a meeting at ten, right? With Dad and the board?"
It's quarter of now. He swears again, in English this time. "I remember."
"OK. I'll see you there."
"Yup," he agrees.
As it turns out, he is seven minutes late to the meeting but, taking their example from Pete, who takes his example from the Doctor's drowned-rat head of hair, no one says a word. Even Rose is unusually subdued and offers none of her usual biting retorts when the more conservative members of the board voice their baseless fears about the newest aliens Torchwood is in treaty talks with.
The Doctor knows he's hurt her. He also knows that there's a possibility he's overreacting. He definitely knows she didn't store the clothes to spring on him after careful calculating the day that has the maximum potential for humiliation. Still, he can't help but feel naked without a collar to straighten or a tie to tug at. Actually, he might be more comfortable naked - at least then the million eyes he swears he can feel on his back would be warranted. That is, on his bum. The sexy specs stored in his trousers' back pocket will, he is willing to bet, be imprinted on his arse by the time the day is done.
Maybe that's why Rose thought they were so cute. On any other day, this would earn her a wiggle of said impressive feature when he bent to retrieve a dropped pencil or piece of paper but now it just leads him back to being angry again. At the very least, peeved. He's not a piece of meat - and he looks just as good in his charcoal suit, anyhow.
It's still pouring by the time noon rolls around so, forgoing his usual stop at the cafe down the street where he and Rose like to sit with a container of chips, watching the leaves fall and the people race by, the Doctor heads down to the canteen for a sandwich. Rose isn't there. Not in the mood for a conversation with Jake or Pete or the brunette intern eying him hungrily in the corner, he returns to his office to eat in peace. Rose isn't there, either.
A half-hour goes by and then an hour. Rose still isn't back. The Doctor ducks down to the canteen, empty now save for a few stragglers which do not include Rose Tyler. He texts her, then calls her but she answers neither.
"She left just before lunch," says Jake when the Doctor tracks him down after eighty-two minutes.
"And she didn't say where?" Without a working car, she would have had to walk or take a taxi and he's seen the drivers in this city. Both dangerous choices in optimal conditions.
"Sorry, mate."
He punches redial again, plonking his forehead against the window, turned opaque in the rain, as if he can will Rose to him through the glass. It goes to voicemail again just as his mobile buzzes with a text.
Got stuck in traffic, sorry. Come downstairs. Surprise for you.
Breath coming just a bit easier, the Doctor races past Jake to the bank of elevators, swiping Sharon from HR's hand aside in his haste to reach the ground-floor button. Rose is waiting for him just inside the lobby. Her hair is damp and her face is flushed from the cold and the rain, free of this morning's makeup.
Before she can say a word he's crossed the hall - too-tight trousers be damned - and enveloped her in a hug. One arm comes up around his waist while the other remains at her side. The carrier bag that dangles from her wrist digs into his hip.
"Where were you?"
"'M sorry, I just went to the shops. Didn't think I'd be gone this long. There was this three-car pileup-"
An accident she could easily have been a part of and his last words to her would have been some snide comment about a silly shirt. The Doctor shudders and pulls her closer, hoping Rose attributes it to the wind the revolving door lets in along with a group of tourists.
"Here," Rose disentangles herself from his arms, "did you want to see your surprise?"
"My . . ."
"I was saving it for Christmas," she admits, "had it on layaway and all. Just thought you might like it earlier. Get more use out of it, anyway. Especially on days like today." She's nervous and it's with a tentative hand that she offers him the carrier bag. Inside, under red-and-gold wrapping, is his coat.
Well, not exactly his coat. Janis Joplin gave him that coat and he doubts Rose ran into her at Debenhams. But it's long and swishy and wonderfully warm when he sweeps it over his shoulders. How could he never have appreciated just how warm it was before?
"Is it alright? We can return it, I kept the receipt." Rose watches him anxiously, eyes following every movement. With difficulty she suppresses a shiver of her own.
The Doctor pulls her back into his arms, drawing the coat close around them both, nestling them together so their body heat is shared. Just short of stifling but exactly what's needed after a long time in the cold.