"Such lovely hair," said one of the women.

"I rather fancy his eyes," said one of the men. "So deep."

"I don't know how any of you are missing," said the low, sultry voice of another of the women. "The shape of this man's ass."

All around the Doctor, a gaggle of interested buyers poked and prodded, examining the merchandise - him! him! - for sale. Everywhere he tried to shrink away, there was another pair of pawing hands, running through his hair, checking his teeth, the strength of his arms, and other - things.

He had been knocked out, and dragged here against his will. He had been poked, prodded, and groped, by a selection of humanoid aliens he could not identify. They had taken away his suit, his favorite tie, and his sonic screwdriver, and to heap insult on top of injury, his dinner had tasted remarkably of pear.

The worst bit of it all, though, was that in the day and a half since he'd been here, he'd seen hide nor hair of Rose.

He was worried. He was anxious. He was a bit glad she wasn't here to see him in this loincloth, all trussed up like some pin-up girl. But mostly he was lonely - there were psychic dampers everywhere, so he couldn't feel the TARDIS or Rose - and it had been at least eighteen hours since he'd last her held her hand.

He missed her.

Then, suddenly, as a murmur drove it's way through the crowd, he didn't miss her any more.

He didn't have to.

The crowd split for her. She was absolutely stunning - well, Rose was always stunning - but stunning in the very literal sense, in that all the shoppers around her had stopped moving. The one with her hand on his bum immediately withdrew it - Rose stalked like a lioness down the path they had made for her, her dress a long, swishy affair that trailed regally after her. Her eyes met his and, contrary to his expectation, she didn't smirk. She didn't laugh. She didn't even twitch an eyebrow.

What she did do was look him up and down, from head to toe and rake her fingernails down his chest. He might've groaned - and loudly, too - if there wasn't something in his way, presently. That something, he thought as he gasped into it, was Rose's small, firm mouth pressed hard against his; instinctively, he reached out for her, but found his hands were still bound above his head to a post.

"Ladies," said Rose with an imperious glare to the crowd. "And gentlemen. This one's not for sale. He belongs to me."

Oh, did he ever.