It was a perfect idea. Sheer brilliance had hit him, just like that. He grinned as he held the small bouquet loosely in his hands, afraid to hurt a single flower. There were only like 7, but they were precious to him. In his other hand he held his bag tightly, compensating for the grip he couldn't have with his other hand.

He was almost skipping. But he knew that that was frowned upon as soon as you reached the 'mature' age of like 12 years old, so he kept it inside, putting his energy somewhere else. Basically, his hands. Which was working about as well as you'd expect.

He had passed a flower shop on his way to get his lunch this morning. It was so simple, but a rose stood out to him. He bet that Rose had never smelled a rose before. It was simple, maybe a bit cheesy, but he loved the mere idea. Perhaps it would even help her cheer up a bit, considering the state she was in yesterday.

Just like the other days, Rose was patiently waiting while George was having his lunch.

"Rose!" he called as he approached her. His grin must've been infectious as she smiled at the look on his face. However, his words immediately faltered and he gave some indecipherable sounds as he tried to figure out how to continue.

He held the flowers a bit tighter behind his back. Oops. "Uh… er…" What was the sudden nervous high school boy impression he was doing? Because it was perfect.

She smiled kindly. He wasn't sure if she noticed his inner fight, so he waved his hand—before realising it was the one that was holding the flowers. Oops. She saw them as her eyes widened a bit, her eyebrows shooting up along.

He fiddled with his collar. "I figured… I thought… They're for you?" Oh, dear, it's like he couldn't talk properly anymore. He didn't even think it was odd, why was he suddenly so nervous?

She smiled but cocked an eyebrow at him. "What? Why?"

"Well, I mean, your name is Rose, but I doubt you've ever smelled them before. And like, it's a pretty big thing in our culture. Roses, I mean. They smell nice and…" He swallowed. "Everything."

She blinked at him before smiling softly. "That's… surprisingly thoughtful."

He grinned but then backtracked. "Oi! What'd you mean 'surprisingly'?"

She rolled her eyes at him. He shrugged off his nervousness and took a few steps closer, taking out the single rose in the mix, and holding it out under her nose. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She smiled and opened her eyes at him. "Smells lovely. It's so light." She sounded delighted, and he smiled. "Thank you, John!"

"No problem, Rose—" Wait. "Rose what…? What brand are you?" He looked to her side. Not that he could read anything from here, he just didn't want to look at her face anymore, feeling his own warm up.

"Trainler," she gave.

"Rose Trainler," he said, testing it in his mouth. "Rolls right off the tongue."

"And the tracks," she joked.

"Ha! Let's hope not." He moved to go inside, but then had a thought that stopped him in his tracks. "Oh!" He took out the other 6 flowers from the bouquet and pocketed the paper around it. "Here," he called, motioning them before her.

She opened her mouth and he threw them in. She chewed for a few seconds, smiling widely.

He made a finger gun and went to the cabins to check up on her. He busied himself and didn't see the time pass. At some point, an older man who he later recognised as George walked in. He tapped the walls to grab his attention. He turned around, dazed look on his face and Sonic screwdriver in hand. "Huh?"

"You going to be much longer?" he asked, arms crossed, leaning on the half-closed door.

"Don't lean on the door," the Doctor warned.

"I'll do whatever I want, thanks. How much longer?"

"I'm basically done. Just need to fix this one last thing. Oh, and the toilet paper is empty. Don't know who does that," he said, pointing in the direction of the loo.

He went back to the compartment he was working on, full of wires. He used his screwdriver with an unparalleled speed, thought George. Frankly, George thought the Doctor was utterly insane. He just didn't have any concrete proof, and he got the Doctor the job in the first place, so he wouldn't have done anything with it.

He liked the Doctor before, but now, he was just overwhelming to him. He was just… too hyper for his liking. "What's up with the screwdriver?" he asked.

"Sonic, the screwdriver," the Doctor responded. "It's blue and fast. Sonic."

He blinked. Then the door caved in and he lost his balance, almost falling to the ground, barely holding himself up with the wall.

The Doctor threw his Sonic in the air and caught it. "Told you."

George was getting more and more pissed at the Doctor, but he didn't seem to notice a thing about it. So he marched off back to the front to drive. He'd take the Doctor with if he hadn't cared to move, that's all.

The Doctor took his time. It wasn't the most important piece, but that didn't mean it didn't deserve his undivided attention.

He buckled over when the train started moving. He briefly thought George was kidnapping him before realising that that wasn't a thing that people did with trains. Not in the middle of the day, right in front of the station, anyway. He got out when the train stopped a bit further.

He fiddled with his hands. Right then.

Spending the rest of the day was quite boring, although he did love to talk to the trains here and there. The ones that were there were usually sick, so not particularly talkative, but the ones he did manage to get talking had so much to say. And, hey, if he could have some positive impact, that was good, right?

"How's the human experience treating you?" Rose asked.

"Huh?" he answered eloquently, looking up from his lunch. They had been silent for the past few minutes, having shared a few 'hello's. He had been so intent on his cold ravioli that he was surprised he heard her at all. "What?"

"Well, I don't know. Art? Do you make art?"

He chuckled. "Me? Nah, terrible at that stuff."

She blanched. "Really? I thought everyone knew how to do something."

He chewed on his ravioli thoughtfully. He supposed everyone had a thing, and that must mean he had something, too. What was it, though? He sucked at any instrument and his voice wasn't any good. He had the dancing skills of a giraffe, and his attention span didn't let him focus on a painting for any longer than a solid Simpson episode.

"I sculpt," he remembered. Well, he made a sculpture three times in art class a few years ago, but he was darned good at it. Like he had borrowed the hands of Michelangelo himself. He was good with his hands. That's why this job was so fun, too. It was easy and he could lose himself in it.

"Oh, like what?" she asked.

He put his platter of ravioli down. "People. Humans."

"That seems… intricate."

He hummed thoughtfully before turning his attention back to his ravioli. Someone also made this. Well, if it weren't mass-produced, obviously, but even if. Someone made that machine, adding crevices and pressure on this pasta to give it its shape. Someone had to make the machine that made the pasta. He looked up. Someone built this station. Someone built the tracks he was sitting next to, and that Rose was on. The land had been cleared and flattened, the weeds taken out with care so they wouldn't regrow to create disaster. Someone had made that glass, and those building stones, and the sky, and those clouds, and the earth he was sitting on. People were getting off and on the trains, leading their lives, who each knew other people, who knew other people. Huh, six degrees of separation. People who loved each other, by blood or found, by affection or promises. He blinked.

"Interesting view," she commented quietly.

He hummed again as he shoved a forkful of ravioli in his mouth. The world was quite a nice place to be in, actually.

Rose smiled at him. He liked it when she smiled. Oh, right. You had to ask things back. He swallowed down his delicious meal. "What about you?" he asked. "Do you have anything?"

Only a moment later did he realise that it might've been a stupid question to ask, considering her limblessness. However, she showed not a single sign of being hurt by it, which was… good. Odd, but good. Her face did turn a bit pink. She chuckled. "Yeah, actually. Does singing count?"

"You sing ?" He put a hand in front of his mouth. "Sorry."

"No," she laughed. "No, I get it. Surprising. Uhm…" She smiled as she looked away. Something in him itched, but he ignored it. "James…" She laughed again. "Yeah. He showed me some songs."

"Don't know why I didn't think of that," he muttered. Was his ravioli looking stale, or was that just him? It tasted funny.

"Well, I don't see why you would," she said. "It's something normal for you, no?"

"Yeah," he said, mindlessly. "It is." He cocked his head. Fundamentally different worldview. He wondered what it would be like to live as a train. Like Thomas Nagel's said, we don't know what it's like to actually experience something that we can understand the physics of. He looked up at Rose. If anyone understood the physical aspect of it, it was him. He worked with them, after all. Yet…

She smiled at him questioningly. Something in his chest felt off. Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Did he miss something? Was he too reckless checking this morning? A wave of anxiety hit him, and he was grateful he was sitting down.

What's this about? He was fine, there was no need for this. He shook his head to clear it, only adding a thickness to his head.

"You alright?" she asked.

He kept down a scoff. "Yeah. Dunno what's up with my head." He shrugged. "Tired, I guess."

She nodded.

"Well," he said, standing up, taking care not to spill what was left of his ravioli. "That's that, then." It was odd, but he didn't want to look at her. He felt something in his chest pulling him back down, to stay put, but he felt paralysed. He stayed there for a bit until he blinked, and he used that to snap out of it.

What was up with him today?

He looked up at Rose, finally. A soft smile on her face, he couldn't help but reciprocate it.

"Thanks, John." She sighed. "I appreciate you coming here."

"My pleasure," he said. He tipped his non-existent hat. He turned around and departed, every step feeling like lead. He just had to hide away somewhere for a few minutes and someone would come to pick her up, and he wouldn't have to deal with whatever was going on anymore.

A few minutes passed, his ravioli in the trash, and a few announcements later, he went back out of the restroom. Rose should have left by now. He carefully went back to the holding rails, and not a single train was there. First of all, good, Rose was gone. Secondly, what. Where did they all go? He looked back at one of the numerous clocks hanging in the station. He hadn't been gone for that long.

…Okay. He went out to the tracks and waited.

Rose should be back in roughly 4 hours. He could say hi, if he wanted to, and then had to leave. Not that he wanted to.

He kicked a pebble. There were so many pebbles, but the colours confused him. They were mostly grey, like the beaches.

Rose might appreciate it if he said hi, even if he didn't really want to. Because he didn't.

There was a pebble in his shoe.

Well, he did, actually, but he also didn't. Part of him wanted to drop it all and avoid her like the plague. It made no sense in his head or to his heart, but he knew what it was.

There was still a pebble in his shoe.

A constant pressure rhythmically beating against skin, breaking through like erosion over time. Something powerful in its consistency, but perhaps not much else.

It was four hours until he would see Rose. He didn't have to worry about it yet. He didn't have to worry about anything. Except for the lack of trains in a train station.

He stood back up confidently before being reminded of the pebble. His shoe was put on so tight, it'd be a whole mess to get it out, being double knotted and all. It'll fester, break his skin, and infect itself.

He took a deep breath and walked towards the station.

He'll say hello when she gets here.