I wrote this originally for Tumblr, and I've posted it here.

A/N: This story is in no way associated with the BBC Two or any of its affiliates.

Please review! Thanks for reading!

He's a personality on the telly, a bit like Bill Nye, but, you know, with physics and space-time, and all the confusing stuff that Bill Nye can only begin to understand.

And people love him, of course: he's received more than one pair of knickers in the post (which he promptly discards), and he's gotten propositioned by teenagers and established physicists alike (He's not naming names, but there was a certain professor at Oxford who'd left a drunken message on his mobile during Summer Eights.).

But anyway, he's recently started a new show where he sits in his brainy specs and talks about science the way other people talk about the Kardashians, and he makes it—well, cool. Then he'll invite a celebrity (a smart one, because he has no time for idiots) and they'll talk about the universe, make stupid clay models of what they imagine aliens might look like, and sometimes derail completely and discuss Harry Potter. It's a bit of a toss-up, but that's the way people seem to like it.

So there's this one day—he's got Stephen Fry coming on later, who's a friend and an audience favorite—and he's chatting away to one of the poor cameramen who only wants to test the lighting, but he's got the show's host talking his ear off and he can't just politely shake him, when a blonde girl with a headset walks up behind them.

"Doctor," she says without ado and holds out her hand for him to shake. "I'm your new PA, Rose Tyler."

He's momentarily a little shocked at being interrupted, a feat most are unable to accomplish simply because the rate his gob produces words can somehow keep up with the rate his brain produces thoughts—but this girl seemed to have succeeded quite unwittingly.

He shakes her hand, eyebrow arched, looking her up and down. She's pretty, but she probably knows nothing about physics. At first he's annoyed, but then he thinks that he can just make her another convert.

"I'm the Doctor," he says finally. He's long forgotten about the cameraman, and has turned to face her. She's wearing a tight pencil skirt and a bright pink blouse that he's not so sure is the best choice of colors, but then, he's got this atrocious green tie.

"I know," she says. Cheeky, this one. "Mr. Fry is here; he's just arrived."

He thinks that the way her mouth moves—a way that seems in tandem with her eyebrows—is very pleasant.

She shows him back to the usual room, fetches him a bottle of water, and tells him the studio audience will start filing in in thirty minutes and he really ought to get to makeup.

They do a wonderful show, which is no surprise. He and Stephen both talk at such length that the producers have to cut it off and put the extra footage online.

After the show, he makes his way back to his dressing room, a place that's really become more like his office. One side is covered in things telly related, like suit jackets and cans of pomade. The other side is an explosion of books, papers, and electronics, all which appear to be in a state of reassembly.

The blonde girl knocks softly on his door and peeks her head in.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asks.

There isn't, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have anything to say.

"Rose, isn't it?" he says, rising out of his chair where he had his legs propped up on the counter. "Come in, I don't feel as though we've met properly."

She's changed out of her skirt and into a pair of tight jeans and vest. It's seven in the evening, and she probably wants to head out and have drinks with her boyfriend who is also probably blonde.

"Unless I'm keeping you," he says uneasily. He's been known to be rude from time to time, not that he usually cares, but he doesn't think it would be a good idea to irritate the person who'll be fetching his food.

"Not at all."

"Have a seat?" he asks, clearing off one of the chairs that held a stack of recently published journals on astrophysics. She takes the offered seat, perches herself on its front edge, and looks uncomfortably around the room.

"So, the studio's assigned you as my new personal assistant?"

"Yep," she responds.

"And you said it was Rose…Tyler?" He usually finds words easily and is hardly ever in short supply, but somehow he's just been reduced to asking her the only two questions that he already knew the answer to.

She nods.

"And what made you want to get into personal assistantship in television?" The moment the question is out of his mouth, he realizes that as much as he meant the question in jest, it probably sounded fairly condescending.

But she doesn't seem to react disparagingly. "I'd actually like to be a producer one day. I mean, maybe not for something as big as this, but for commercials or something."

He leans back in his chair, kicking his feet back up again.

"I was wondering—" "If you were looking to—" they both start.

"Go ahead," he says, motioning for her to speak.

"I was wondering," she begins again, a little flustered, and she tucks her hair behind her ear. "I know it isn't any of my business, but what happened to your last PA?"

His eye contact breaks and he looks into the mirror.

"Maternity leave. After her maternity leave, she decided to stay at home. Pity, really, she was wonderful. Great kid though. She had a boy."

"Oh, well, just wondering."

"Not that you won't be! Wonderful, I mean." he replies hurriedly. He wants to hit his head repeatedly on something solid, perhaps a brick wall.

Her face flushes and she stands up looking towards the door. He's sure he's mucked this up somehow, and he's sure he's offended her, which is just typical, really.

"You probably have somewhere to be," he says, also standing. "I'm sorry for keeping you."

"You weren't," she replies. "I'll see you on Monday, then?"

"Right. Yes. Have lovely weekend."

She smiles at him as she closes the door behind her. The moment she does, he groans loudly with self-frustration, and then again, more quietly, hoping she didn't hear.

He's quite determined that next time he sees her, he won't act like such an idiot.

She's hanging her coat up and stowing her purse in a cubby, fixes her headset on and straps a walkie-talkie to her waist when she looks up and jumps a mile.

"Doctor!" she gasps. "You scared the life out of me."

"Sorry," he says. He's hanging just inside the doorway looking for an opportunity to speak.

"Is there anything you need? You're here early."

"I get here before most of the crew."

"What, d'you live in your dressing room?" she jokes, but her expression quickly becomes serious when his face darkens ever so slightly. But just as soon as it darkens, he's off making another joke, and beckons her to follow him into the hallway.

He spends the day asking her questions, like where she's from, where she went to school, what her favorite food is, her favorite book (because you can tell a lot about a person by the books they read). She answers them all politely, but remains reserved. He follows her around the studio as she works, walks with her to Starbucks when she's doing a run for everyone and helps her carry back the spoils.

"And what about bananas?" he asks her.

"What about them?"

"Do you like them?"

"Of course," she says.

"That's good," he replies. "You know, this Starbucks makes a special banana latte for me."

"Sorry," she interrupts as she pushes the front door open with her shoulder. "I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but don't you have work you're supposed to be doing?" She figures a man who has his face plastered on a advert on the M4 probably has a busy schedule.

"I—well, probably. D'you want me to leave you alone?"

"No, it's not that. I just didn't want you to think that you had to look after me, my being new and all."

"I've got to know my PA properly! S'all I'm doing." Somewhere in the back of his mind he expects that that probably isn't all he's doing.

She smiles at him, pauses briefly in thought before speaking. "What about you, then? What's your favorite book?"

"I'll tell you what isn't my favorite book: A Brief History of Time."

"Stephen Hawking?"

"You've read it?" he asks, surprised.

"Tried to. Didn't get very far."

"How far?"

"…The front cover."

"Well, you aren't missing much. Mostly a load a bollocks, bless him."

She laughs at this, a man that so many people know and adore saying words like "bollocks;" the entire situation is surreal.

"I like you," she says, as if she's been debating the issue.

Cheeky, this one, he thinks again. He thinks he likes her, too.

Two weeks later, he careens around the corner while she's getting a sandwich at the catering table.

"D'you want to go to the Planetarium?" he asks, very out of breath.

"What?" She has a mouthful of turkey sandwich and she's pretty sure a piece flew out as she spoke.

"The Planetarium, d'you want to go?"

"I—yes? But I don't know anything about the stars."

"I know—thought I'd show you."

She hands him a bottle of water as he tries to catch his breath.

"Where are you coming from? Why were you in such a hurry?"

"Dressing room—just thought of it—thought you might like it—came to ask—before you made other plans."

"What, is this like a date?" She's joking, of course. He's a renowned physicist and celebrity, and she's completing her A-level's at night school.

"Uh—yes—no. Sort of? It's just you can't be working at a place like this without basic knowledge of our galaxy, and you can't see the stars very well in London, and I know the Planetarium isn't really the same, but you know, bit of a crash course, I guess."

"Sure."

"You'll go then?"

"Yeah, when?"

"Tomorrow afternoon?"

"Should I meet you?"

"Of course not," he scoffs, "I'll pick you up."

He texts her an hour later asking her where it is she lives, a small detail he seemed to have forgotten during his stroke of genius.

It's a Saturday afternoon, and he pulls up in his car at the address she sent to his phone. It's a bit dodgy, this place, and he hopes no one will recognize him—though, if he's being honest, this doesn't exactly seem like the kind of place that would be terribly well-versed in popular physics.

His car isn't flashy. If anything, it's the opposite. It's blue and a bit worn, and at this point it might be considered a classic car, and he constantly has to repair it, but he considers it a hobby, and it serves him well.

Down in a minute, she texts. Two seconds later, I still think it's a bit weird that I have your number in my contacts.

Good weird or bad weird? he replies.

A moment.

Good weird.

A minute later she's opening the passenger side door, smiling ear-to-ear.

"You drive yourself? I'd have thought you'd have a driver."

"Me? Nah, I like driving."

She shrugs and clicks her seatbelt.

"Is it safe here?" he asks, and then realizes he probably shouldn't have. Rude, him.

"Oi! Yes. Safe enough."

"You live here alone?" He pulls back into traffic.

"No, I'm with my mum."

"Just the two of you?"

"Yep," she says, that same sort of "yep" she gave him when they first met. He doesn't like how stiff it sounds.

"You don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry."

"No. I'm sorry. I just…you probably aren't around this part of town often."

He chuckles slightly. "No, I can't say I have been. Still, it has a certain sort of charm."

"If by 'charm' you mean 'government-subsidized,' then yes."

He turns to her, trying to gauge whether or not he's crossed some sort of line, but when he looks at her, she's smiling, and he feels a flood of relief.

"What if someone sees me with you?" she asks as they walk into the Planetarium. They take the back entrance to avoid the crowds and potential autographs.

"They know me here. We're fine."

"Do you take all your PAs here?" she teases.

"I—no! I mean, I took Sarah once."

"She was your old PA."

"Yeah."

"You miss her." It isn't a question.

"Yeah," he says as they walk up the stairs. "But I've got you now." He says it in a way that feels more than boss and assistant. She shrugs it off.

"Ready to see the stars?" he says as the walk in, taking seats in the large, dark, circular room.

They sit their together for an hour and he explains all the constellations. He isn't making much of an effort to be quiet, and she doesn't much care, except that she's worried someone may recognize his voice.

He points out Orion and Gemini, and she shows him, how, if you connect those stars just over there, it looks a bit like one of those old-fashioned Police Call Boxes.

He chuckles; it's a genuine chuckle, and he points to Canis Minor, after which she voices her opinion that these constellations look nothing like dogs or crabs or any animal for that matter.

It isn't long before one of the attendants—a young fellow still spotted with acne who doesn't seem to recognize the Doctor—tells them that they are disturbing the other guests, and they need to keep it down, or they'll have to leave.

Five minutes later they both burst out in laughter about an off-color joke Rose makes about Gemini, and they are asked to leave.

He takes her hand and they run.

People are starting to notice a difference. On his show, that is. It isn't as if he was ever morose, but he's quicker to smile. People love him even more.

She still brings him lunch, but they eat together. It's a strange sort of shift. She still picks up his dry cleaning, but somehow it doesn't feel like a chore, probably because if she didn't pick up his dry cleaning, he wouldn't care. It seems like he wears the same suit all the time anyway.

One morning around eleven in the morning, he's in with wardrobe surrounded by women who insist that this week he wear something besides his brown pinstripe suit.

She walks in carrying a stack of books he's asked for. She doesn't understand any of them, because most of them are about particle physics, but she did take a peek at the newest Grisham novel. For some reason he seemed to like them.

"Rose," he says as she walks in, "tell them they can't make me."

"Can't make you do what? Where do you want these?"

"Over on that chair over there. And that I can't make me wear something else."

She sets the books on the chair he's indicated.

"People are going to start to think you don't own anything else. It'll get a bit kitsch, won't it, if you wear the same thing every time."

"But Rose!" he whines. He sounds like a child, but he really doesn't want to wear a different suit.

"What if you change the tie?"

The woman dancing around him with a tape measure stops and gives her a look of exasperation that Rose is complicit in his rebellion.

"Just change the tie every time. And maybe let her make you one other suit. Maybe a blue one? Surely one other suit won't hurt."

"Maaaybe," he says, sizing himself up in the mirror. "A new tie, you say?"

Rose glides over to the rack of of clothes and starts flicking through the fabric.

"This one," she says quickly. She's removed a brown tie with swirls. "It suits you."

He smiles. He wears the same tie for a straight week.

In two months she's approached by HR. Well, HR and his manager. She's talking with one of the producers when they motion her over with a flick of the hand, like one would call for a dog.

They interrogate her for fifteen minutes and only stop when the show starts to film. Are they dating? Have they been shagging? What is the nature of her relationship with the Doctor?

Friends, she repeats over and over. They're just friends.

"What did Donna want?" he asks her after the show.

"Nothing." She is tight-lipped and quiet.

"I'll ask Donna if you don't tell me," he responds. "And she'll tell me what's going on."

"She wanted to know if we were together." She doesn't look up from the planner she's on which pretending to concentrate.

"Of course we are!" he says.

"Excuse me?!"

"I mean, we spend most of our time together, of course we're together."

Oh, she thinks. For such an intelligent man, she thinks he can be willfully oblivious.

It's 10:30 in the evening after a long show and a few hours of DVD commentary. Most everyone has left, and Rose is grabbing her bag to catch the last bus.

There are furious tapping noises coming from his dressing room, and she peeks in after barely knocking, which she probably wouldn't have done at all if it weren't for the lateness of the hour and the fact that his door was completely shut instead of cracked open.

"Why are you still here?" she asks. He is burrowed in a reclining chair she had no idea was in there with a laptop perched on his lap.

"Work to do," he responds. He flicks his eyes up to her but looks immediately to his computer.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow? Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"I want to work on it now."

"Okay," she says. Clearly he's in a mood, one that she's never really seen him in, but she's also never seen him this late in the evening. She's about to leave, to close the door behind her, leave and take the bus back to the Estate…when she doesn't.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks, walking all the way in and setting her bag on the counter.

"You can't help me with this."

Is he insulting her intelligence? Of course she can't help him with it; she knows that.

"I didn't say I wanted to."

"Oh. Well, I really need to work on this; I can't sit here and chat."

"Did I say I wanted you to sit here and entertain me? I just asked if I could join you."

"Right, well. Have a seat, then."

He continues to click away at his computer, which continues to spout a series of beeps and sounds that make it sound like the poor machine is getting overworked.

"What is it you're running on that thing, anyway?" she says looking down at her phone, telling her mum she's staying even later, even though she's probably already asleep.

He looks up at her as if he's forgotten she was there.

"Emergency Programme One."

"Sounds serious."

"It's not really. It's a programme I've designed to synthesize algorithms for the life expectancy of certain unstable timelines."

"Oh." She pulls out a book from her bag (It's Dickens—a book she's reading for night school.). Clearly he's not interested in answering her question on a level she can understand, which is fine, and she's glad she decided to stay because for some reason she doesn't think he should be alone in moods like this.

Minutes pass, then a half hour, then an hour. The room isn't fully lit—he's just got a lamp on in the corner—and it's starting to hurt her eyes.

"What are you reading?" he says suddenly, his computer closed.

Her head jerks up at the interruption, almost forgetting they were in the same room.

"Great Expectations."

"Do you like it?"

"I don't much like Pip. I don't think he's quite the victim as he makes himself out to be."

"He's a bit of a twat, yes."

Her eyes grow large as his language, and they both promptly burst out in laughter. She is suddenly acutely aware of how dark it is, how a shadow covers part of his face and his eyes are dilated in an attempt to snap up more light.

"Let's get out of here," he says.

"It's almost two in the morning. You've got a show tomorrow."

"Sod the show. Let's walk to the river."

She looks at him with no little amount of incredulousness.

"That's a bit of a hike."

"Couple hours, at least." He stands up and walks over to where she's sitting and holds out his hand. "We'll walk all the way to the Eye, people watch, and then take the first ride when it opens."

"You'll get noticed," she says, taking his hand anyway.

"If I can't take a ride on the London Eye with my PA on a Thursday morning, then I really ought to move somewhere I can."

"As your PA, I feel I should voice my official concern over this plan."

"And as a friend?" he asks, his eyes lighting up.

"Let's go, but you're buying me breakfast."

She uses his arm as an anchor to stand up. The shadows that were under his eyes seem to have gone, at least partially. His face still looks tired, but it also looks alive. She wants to ask him why he does this to himself, what he's thinking about when he's sitting alone in his dressing room, if he ever actually goes home, if he even has one, and why always so alone, but she doesn't. Not now, at least.

They're sitting on a bench on the embankment looking over at the Eye on the other side of the river. Her feet hurt; she didn't think about changing her heels before the left, and she's regretting it.

They lean into each other, she's clutching coffee and he's got tea, and the sun broke over the horizon about a half hour ago. They're both tired, but he looks so content. She can feel his heart beating through his skin, which is warm and nice-feeling in the morning chill.

"Sorry about your feet," he says quietly. There are early morning joggers and dog-walkers, people bustling in and out of cabs.

"Not your fault."

"My idea to walk this far."

"Yeah, and I guess it is your fault you didn't carry me for miles," she teases.

"I could have."

"Big, strong man that you are."

"Yes! Exactly!"

She rolls her eyes. "Still, this is nice. But apparently the Eye doesn't open until ten."

"Yeah, we probably should have looked into that."

"But I'm game to wait if you are," he continues, dropping his head onto her shoulder. He's considerably taller, and it makes the motion a little awkward, but it still feels right.

"Donna will be mad."

"She'll live."

"She'll blame me."

"She likes you, you know."

He drops his head slightly and his lips graze her collarbone. It makes her gasp; she doesn't know what to think of it. Did he mean to?

Before she can really process the gesture, it changes, and this time it is clearly a kiss. His lips are especially warm from the tea and it sends chills through her. He kisses her again a little further up, and then again on her throat.

"Doctor," she says, out of breath though she's hardly moved a muscle. "We're in public."

"Nobody will notice."

"People have cameras on their phones these days."

"Sod the phones."

"That's the second thing you've sodded in my honor today, Doctor. I'm beginning to think you like me."

"I do like you. Very much."

It's there on the Victoria Embankment, she with blisters on her feet, and he with a slightly burned tongue from being a bit too eager to start his tea, where they kiss for the first time. He kisses her, takes his hand and weaves his fingers through her hair, brings her close and kisses her this time full on the mouth. She tastes like coffee but he doesn't really mind.

"Thank you," he whispers into her mouth. She doesn't know what he's thanking her for, so she doesn't comment, and only kisses him harder.

It's when she's finally home when she starts to wonder how on Earth she's going to tell her mother how she's dating the country's most popular person on the telly. If that's what they're doing. Are they dating? Does kissing by rivers equal dating? Or are they just fooling around? Or is it more? Suddenly everything seems significantly more complicated.

When they got back to the studio (which they cabbed), Donna was having kittens and the entire crew seemed to be on standby wondering if they were even going to have a show to tape.

Donna gave them both looks of cold fury, but when she saw the look on the Doctor's face, which looked genuinely really happy for the first time in a while, she practically said nothing. No yelling, only a jab that maybe he should leave a note next time he planned on riding off into the sunset with the princess.

Rose got her spare blouse from where she kept her things (one she always kept after she realized her shirts were likely to be victims of the Doctor's banana lattes) and freshened herself up in the restroom, and she went about her day as usual. Granted, she was exceptionally more tired and knocked back enough caffeine to kill a horse.

That evening when she got home, she had her mother to answer to. Jackie wasn't so much outraged at Rose so much as she was at the Doctor and the BBC, how it was completely wrong that they kept her that late, and if she wasn't getting paid some serious overtime, she ought to sue.

But Rose rolled her eyes and drew herself a bath, and thought it much more pleasant to think about the last 24 hours.

They don't film on Fridays. She has the day off, which meas she has the day to work on her school work. She's about a month away from finishing her A-levels, and to her it couldn't come any sooner.

She hears the telly buzzing from the living room where her mum is watching reruns of EastEnders, when she hears a knock on the front door.

Knowing her mum won't get it while she's watching her stories, Rose get's up from the kitchen table and opens the door without checking to see who it is, and she finds the Doctor, dressed in a blazer, vest, and jeans, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers, and she's no idea where he got them.

"I thought," he started, looking her up and down. She's wearing a grungy pair of leggings and an over-sized vest, and she thinks she sees him gulp.

"Yes?" she asks.

"Rose, who is it?" her mum yells from down the corridor.

"Is your mum home?" the Doctor asks, pushing the door open a bit to listen.

Rose nods and opens the door so that he can come in.

"Should I come back another time?" He looks nervous.

"No! No! Just a second. Come in. Sorry I look…like this, I didn't expect you."

"You look lovely," he replies earnestly, and she rolls her eyes.

He walks into the kitchen with her, and she fills a vase with water for the flowers. It's a small flat, even if there's only two people.

"What are you working on?" he says, spying her work on the table. He lifts up a paper here and there, and as she's reaching up in the cupboard for tea, he appreciates how her shirt lifts up revealing a small part of her lower back.

She turns around and her face goes red when she sees what he's looking at.

"Oh, God," she says, hurrying over to shut the books.

He looks surprised and a little taken aback.

"What?" he persists. "What are you studying?"

She groans in embarrassment.

"Oh, come on, it can't be that bad."

She mumbles something incoherent.

"Sorry?"

"A-levels."

"You're working on your A-levels?"

"I never finished. I'm almost done with them now. Doing an online sort of thing."

"Well, that's brilliant!" he says, and for a moment she thinks he's mocking her, until he realizes he isn't.

"You're not…put off by that? That I never finished?"

"You're finishing now, aren't you?"

She shrugs in the affirmative.

"And then university for you?"

"Yeah, maybe, if I can get in. That's a bit far off, though. We'll see."

"Oh, you will. You'll be brilliant."

Just as he says it, Jackie walks in the kitchen with an empty mug, presumably to make herself some more tea.

"Who's this then?" she says before getting a proper look at him. Rose opens her mouth to explain, when Jackie makes the realization. "Oi! You're the man from telly!"

He sighs a little. "That'd be me."

"What're you here for?" Her mum hasn't always been known for being particularly tactful, probably the result of having zero trust for any bloke Rose has brought home since Jimmy Stone. She only warmed up to Mickey so quickly because she'd known him since he was a kid, and after it ended between them, she'd become markedly more cool towards him, even if he and Rose were still friends.

"Rose is my PA," he said simply.

"And you bring all of your PAs flowers on Friday afternoons?"

"I—no, can't say I do."

Jackie lets out a very unsubtle noise that sounds something like, "Pfft," but neither Rose or the Doctor comment.

"So what are you here for," her mum continues.

"Mum!"

"I've a right to know. It's my house!"

As much as Rose feels like she should defend him from her mother, she wants to know why he's here, too.

He looks back to Rose. "I wanted to know if you wanted to go out."

"And you didn't think to call first?" Jackie said.

"I wasn't thinking. I can leave—"

"Yes."

"Yes?" he asks, looking at Rose. "Yes, I should leave, or yes, you'll come with me?"

"The second one," she says. "But you'll have to let me change." Rose disappears into the other room.

"I'm watching you, mister," Jackie says once she and the Doctor are alone.

"So is most of Britain," he replies.

He thinks it might earn him a slap, but Jackie laughs. He's never really been afraid of anyone before, but he's learning quickly that Jackie Tyler might be an exception.

They end up driving all the way to Stonehenge. He drives; she lounges in the passenger seat. She quickly realizes he's a reckless driver, but he gets them there in one piece.

They forgo the audio tour and he tells her about its history instead. He has one theory after another—one about aliens helping to build it—but in the end, all it is simple human ingenuity.

They drive to Amesbury where they get ice cream and he tells her about some of the latest research he's been reading. She smiles and listens and asks him questions even though she hardly has any idea what he's talking about.

"I like this," she says as they are walking back to his car. "Taking trips like this, with you." She throws him a smile and he thinks his heart might explode, that he really ought to have two of them if this one is going to beat so quickly.

"Me too," he responds. He takes her hand and weaves their fingers together, bringing their hands up to his lips where he places a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

Halfway back to London, she asks him the question that's been on her mind since yesterday. It's getting dark and London is lit up like a forest full of fireflies, so very different from the countryside, but familiar.

"Why me?" she says, interrupting a comfortable silence, their hands joined over the center console,

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, why me, a girl who hasn't even finished her A-levels, can't tell you what a derivative even is, and hasn't even been out of the country?"

"You've never been out of the country?"

"That's not the point right now."

"I think you're underselling yourself. Or you don't see yourself very clearly."

"I see myself fine, thanks."

"I don't know. Firstly, you're a woman. Secondly, you're finishing your A-levels. Thirdly, derivatives have to do with functions and inputs and those sorts of dynamics, so now you know. And fourthly, I've just now decided that it's really only a matter of time before you leave the country."

"You're skirting the issue," she says, becoming frustrated.

He sits in silence for a moment, thinking, she thinks.

"I don't know," he says simply.

"Oh, right." She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"I mean," he starts again, his breathing picking up, "you're so normal."

"Oi, rude," she mutters.

"No, I mean, I love it. You go about your life, trying to make the best of it, fighting against the everyday. Maybe you're too young to be properly jaded, but I like that you aren't. I hope you never will be. I am. And you listen to me, not just what I say on the telly. The only other person that does that is Donna, and she's usually yelling at me for something. And then there's just you. You're beautiful and kind, reasonably levelheaded. And you kept me company that night."

"What was wrong?" she asks finally, surprised by the turn of the conversation.

"It's after days like that when I don't want to do the show anymore. It's just the same thing over and over—different guests, same conversations. I used to travel a lot by myself, and then celebrity sort of happened by accident, and it doesn't feel right."

"You want to see the world; you don't want to talk about it."

"That's not entirely true. I do want to talk about it, but with people who are actually listening. Sometimes I don't want to explain the phenomenon of the Northern Lights but look at them and tell somebody how pretty I think they are."

"The person or the Lights?"

"Both."

They return to the silence for a moment.

"You're a nutter," she says eventually. When she sees he looks appropriately offended, she follows with, "A cute one," before giving his hand a squeeze.

"People are going to think you're dating a blonde gold-digger without a brain."

"But you're not that."

"No, I'm not." Her heart is fluttering at the very fact they're having this conversation.

"And anyway, Britain's money is in pounds silver, so there's nothing to worry about there."

She snickers. It wasn't a great joke, but she appreciates it all the same.

"They might think you're taking advantage of a younger woman without an education."

"Do you feel like you're being taken advantage of?" His eyes remain on the road and his lips press into a hard line.

"No, I most certainly do not."

"End of that problem, then."

London is getting closer, the turn-off for her flat in a matter of miles. He could go there or…

"So what are you going to do, then?"

"About what?"

"Everything."

"Well, I can't quit the show," he says matter-of-factly. And he can't; the BBC is pretty great a drawing up contracts.

"No," she says, after a moment. "But who says you have to film it here?"

"Wha—?" he begins but she continues.

"You could film all over the world. Travel around. Meet people. See things you haven't. Wouldn't have the same day over and over ever again."

"Rose Tyler, that is the most brilliant idea."

"It is, isn't it?"

"Cheeky," he says.

"You could come with me," he says after a moment.

"Like your live-in girlfriend?" she teases.

"Well, that, too, maybe, but you make it sound all wrong when you say it like that. But I was also thinking, you know, that'd I'd need a producer."

"The show already has one."

"It doesn't have one who just came up with that idea, and plus…"

"Plus what?"

"Plus it wouldn't be worth it. I'd see the world but lose you."

"Don't worry, you've got me."

When he passes her turn-off, the one that leads back to her mum's, she doesn't say a word, but leans her head on his shoulder and smiles.

"Forever, if you want."