reel me in 1/? (ten/rose, donna)

[damalurbackup]

This thing won't stop writing itself. Someday I may do something with it, like get it beta-read and stick the chunks together into chapters and post it to a comm, but for now it's going to sit here.

Reel Me In (1/?). Ten/Rose, Donna, AU after 4x07.
He said her name as if it held meanings infinite and nuanced and precious beyond comprehension. He was also a complete stranger, and in Rose’s experience having a strange man covet your name was never a good thing.

I.

Rose Tyler was twenty-five and boring.

As far as she could determine, she hadn’t become boring overnight. It was more of a gradual process, one which began the first time she stayed home on a Friday evening to walk her dog and concluded the day she became the proprietor of a used bookshop.

She wasn’t unhappy, exactly – she had her family, she had her job, she had...she had Hero, at least. She did love running the shop, even though her mum didn’t understand why she’d chosen to quit her job and become a seller of used books; they’d nearly had a row about it as recently as the past weekend, on the zeppelin ride home from a family holiday in Catalonia.

"See, love?" her mum had said. "Wasn’t so bad, was it? That shop eats up so much of your time, no reason you can’t close up early sometimes and come on a trip with your family."

"It’s not the shop, Mum," Rose had tried to explain. "Hero doesn’t like to ride on zeppelins, and – and I just feel like I ought to stay close to home, is all."

"But sweetheart, you used to love to travel!"

"Just leave it, Mum, alright?" And her mum had left it, for once. It wasn’t that Rose didn’t like to travel – the trip to Catalonia had been worth it to watch Tony’s reaction to the old aqueducts alone – she just felt like she should be in London. She didn't even have a particularly good explanation for her insistence; London was where she had to stay, and that would have to be reason enough even for the likes of Jackie Tyler.

She felt undeniably relieved when she opened up as usual on Monday. The morning was quiet; she hauled three boxes of stained, cracking astronomical guides up the spiral staircase, Hero padding on her heels until the dog settled down for her morning nap. She was shedding something awful; the morning sun coming through the upper windows illuminated great wisps of dog hair floating in the air.

Lunchtime brought the week’s first customer, a heavily-accented older gentleman looking for a copy of S. Morgenstern in the original Florentine. "A gift for my granddaughter," he explained, and Rose found him a Florentine edition stuffed away in her cellar. The price was lavish, Morgenstern being something of a rarity, but Rose marked it down to a quarter of the actual worth and added an English edition for free.

After that, she ate a cheese sandwich and thought about werewolves. Hero roused herself and trotted over to perch her head on Rose’s knee, from which she fixed Rose with a wide-eyed, pleading look that was as good as a whine.

"You know cheese isn’t good for you," Rose said.

Hero sulked.

"But I’ve got some biscuits around here. Probably. Might be a bit stale, but you’re never bothered by that, are you?" She pushed her stool aside and bent to rummage beneath the counter; behind a mug of assorted screwdrivers and a stack of newspaper clippings sat a battered tin. The biscuits were intended for humans, but they were free of chocolate, so they were probably safe enough. She pried the lid off and took a tentative whiff; definitely a bit stale, but –

The bell on the door jangled. Rose glanced up.

Into her shop came a ginger-haired woman; she stepped aside almost immediately, and a tall man attired entirely in shades of brown appeared behind her. He wore a long coat, nearly ankle-length, and a pinstriped suit below that. His hair reminded Rose of a cockatoo.

"You're sure this is it?" the woman said, neck craned to take in the elaborate staircase and high windows. Neither of them had noticed Rose yet, crouched as she was behind the counter. "Doesn’t seem like the right place."

"This is it," the man said, and his expression made something ache in Rose’s chest. His face was hopeful and fearful both, and his dark eyes held galaxies.

"Hello," she said, and popped her head up. "Something I can help you with?"

At the sound of her voice, the man froze. "Go on," the woman muttered, and elbowed him. "Go on, you great nit."

The man took a step forward and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "Hello," he said. "Rose Tyler."

Her name in his mouth held meanings infinite and nuanced and precious beyond comprehension. He was also a complete stranger, and in Rose’s experience having a strange man covet your name was never a good thing. "Sorry," she said, "but have we met?"

The man gaped.

"At one of my dad’s fundraisers, maybe...?" Hero’s wet nose nudged her hand, and she automatically held out a biscuit. "You aren’t with the papers, are you?"

"Rose, it’s me," the man said. "The Doctor."

"Sorry, no."

"The TARDIS? Charles Dickens? Satellite 5? Ian Drury, the Cybermen, edible ball bearings...Torchwood?"

"I can help you with Dickens," Rose said, firmly, "but if it’s Torchwood you want, I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

The ginger-haired woman shifted and spoke up for the first time. "Sorry for the trouble. I think we have a case of mistaken identity – you look like a friend of his. We’ll go now." She took the tall stranger by his elbow and tried to steer him back to the door. He resisted at first, his eyes still locked on Rose, but then something went out of him and he allowed himself to be lead.

"Sorry again for the bother," the woman said, offering Rose a tight smile over her shoulder. She gave the man another tug and then they were out the door; the bell jangled once and fell silent.

"How strange," Rose murmured.

Hero nudged her for another biscuit.


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