thirty2flavors: (spend it with you)
[personal profile] thirty2flavors
Title: The Dangers of Accessorizing (or, Handy and the Murse)
Rating: PG for kissing o noez
Genre: Humour, possibly a hint of crack
Characters/Pairings: Ten2/Rose, Jake, OCs
Summary/Exceprt: When Rose told the story, she would insist it started with the Doctor buying a purse.

Author's Notes: Directly inspired by a conversation with the lovely [ profile] hysteriagalore.

When Rose told the story, she would insist it started with the Doctor buying a purse.

“It’s a bag,” the Doctor had insisted, looking thoroughly indignant as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder. The purse bobbed at his side and Rose watched, entranced.

“It’s definitely a bit like a purse,” Rose said. She leaned closer for a better look and tilted her head. “Are you sure you bought that in the men’s department?”

“Of course I’m sure!” he’d insisted again, though he’d twisted his body to better hide the purse from her sight. “Anyway, it’s a bag, and I wouldn’t need a bag in the first place if you lot didn’t make pockets so bloody small.” As though to demonstrate, he shoved one hand into the pocket of his suit jacket and turned it inside out. “What use is that?” Stuffing the liner back in where it belonged, he lifted his chin higher. “Besides, I get strange looks if I keep the screwdriver in my trouser pocket.”

Rose thought it best not to comment on that.

“So you bought a purse,” she said.

“I bought a bag.”

“Couldn’t you just... I don’t know, carry less stuff around?” She looked warily at the purse, finding it all too easy to imagine the contents. “I mean, you had a toy mouse in your blue suit.”

The Doctor looked at her as though she had suggested he cut off his own arm. “That toy mouse has come in very handy, I’ll have you know.”

Sensing she was fighting a losing battle, Rose sighed. “Well, whatever you want.” She glanced at her watch and frowned. “I’ve gotta run, last time I was late, Jake made jokes about Time Lords for a week.” She rolled to her toes to press a quick kiss to his lips, then sank back to feet and moved for the door. “You and your murse try to stay out of trouble, yeah?”

“Be careful,” the Doctor said cheerfully, dispensing the same advice he had taken to using any time Rose did just about anything, regardless of the predicted danger level. Then his face fell. “Murse. Is that –”

“Yes.” She blew him a kiss before she slipped through the door. “I’ll see you later, Doctor.”


When the Doctor told the story, he would insist it began with a completely innocent nighttime stroll, during which he had no intention at all of stumbling upon and thwarting an alien threat well before Torchwood became aware of its existence.

It was routine, he would insist, his occasional pauses to peer around warily, a habit borne of years in the very fastest of life’s metaphorical lanes. The incredibly-clever, highly-advanced and Torchwood uncertified alien-detecting gizmo (as he called it) was merely for show. It wasn’t as though he was expecting, much less hoping to find, signs of an advanced body-snatching plot in the heart of one of London’s clubs.

Nevertheless, the incredibly-clever, highly-advanced and Torchwood uncertified alien-detecting gizmo did not lie (or at least the Doctor didn’t think it did, and as it was his first time using it, he figured he ought to give it the benefit of the doubt).

After stashing the alien-detecting gizmo back inside his bag – the nerve of Rose, disparaging such a useful accessory with such a ridiculous and inaccurate portmanteau – the Doctor stood outside the club for exactly two minutes, contemplating his options.

He wanted to call Rose. He wanted to call Rose partly because he was very fond of Rose – very more than fond, truthfully – and partly because, well, Rose was very useful when it came to things like thwarting advanced body-snatching plots, be they in the heart of London or just about anywhere else in the universe, provided of course they were in the heart of somewhere with an atmosphere capable of sustaining human life, at any rate –

Anyway, he wanted very much to call Rose, but Rose was out for drinks with her Torchwood team, and the Doctor knew very well that if he were to call Rose and request her assistance in alien-thwarting, what he’d really get was the assistance of Rose and the rest of her team. Someone would no doubt contact Torchwood headquarters, and within a quarter of an hour the entire city would be overrun by enthusiastic Torchwood trainees and far too many guns.

So the Doctor decided to wing it.


When the Doctor told the story, he would make sure to emphasize that he was far too distracted by the imminent alien threat to take much note of the interior of the club, its patrons, or the music selection.

And then he would usually add that the club smelt strongly of perspiration and cinnamon, the former being indicative of a successful club and the latter being indicative of Chlorifalian mind-control.

The Doctor frowned. It was a good thing he still had his super-brilliant Time Lord brain. It was also a good thing Chlorifalian mind-control was ineffective against Time Lords (and, strangely, the colourblind).

It was about three minutes of shouldering through the crowd while staring at his alien-detecting gizmo before the Doctor successfully made it to the bar. Enjoying the brief freedom from the surging crowd and attempting to collect his thoughts over the incredibly loud bass line pumping through the speakers, the Doctor said, “There are quite a lot of men here,” to no one in particular.

“Well, it’s a popular spot,” said the man beside him. He looked to be about Rose’s age, and he grinned at the Doctor with a full, toothy smile. “My name’s Rob.”

“I’m the Doctor,” said the Doctor, promptly directing his attention back to the alien-detecting gizmo. Then he paused, looked up and narrowed his eyes. “Rob, what colour shirt am I wearing?”

The look on Rob’s face of bewilderment mingled with embarrassment was precisely what the Doctor had been hoping for. “I—”

“Nevermind,” said the Doctor, shoving the alien-detecting gizmo back into his bag. “Rob, how would you like to save the world?”


As it turned out, Rob was quite useful when it came to saving the world.

He was also very chatty.

“Do you come here a lot?” he asked – or rather, yelled, as the power centre for the Chlorifalian mind-control device was located directly beneath a very large subwoofer.

“Only when aliens are here,” the Doctor called back, pointing the screwdriver at the power control and urging it to work faster.

Rob laughed. Then the Chlorifalian Alpha aimed a shot at the Doctor’s head with its very threatening laser gun, and they decided to try Plan B.


Eventually, it was Rob who rendered the Chlorifalian incapacitated long enough for the Doctor to disable the mind-control device.

He did this by hitting the Chlorifalian over the head with a very sizable bottle of Smirnoff.

“Oh, nice shot!” the Doctor called, right as the bottle cracked.

And that was how the Doctor learned that Chlorifalians in Pete’s World were allergic to alcohol.

“Well,” said the Doctor, staring at the unconscious Chlorifalian and rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s different.”

“You’d think,” said Rob, “that if you were allergic to alcohol, you wouldn’t try to take over the world from a club.”

“Guess they can’t hold their alcohol,” said the Doctor, shoving the mind-control device into his bag for safekeeping.

He was fairly certain Rob only laughed out of pity.


It was also Rob who convinced the Chlorifalian Alpha that Earth was really probably the last place they wanted to take over, as most of its inhabitants over the age of sixteen had very easy access to a liquid that could render the invading species unconscious.

Finding this iron-clad reasoning to be utterly irrefutable, the Chlorifalian Alpha teleported back to its ship outside Earth’s atmosphere without much argument, leaving the Doctor and Rob standing alone in the empty club.

“You know, Rob,” said the Doctor, with an appreciative and impressed smile, “you’re a bit brilliant.”

When the Doctor told the story, he would always make note of the predatory gleam that appeared in Rob’s eyes.


When Rose told the story, she would always pause here and press her lips together, fighting to keep a straight face and bite back a laugh. She’d look across at the Doctor, flash him a dazzling smile to counteract his scowl, and then she’d turn back to her audience.

And then she’d tell them how she and her Torchwood team walked into a deserted gay bar to find the Doctor being heavily snogged by a young man in a cowboy hat.

It took Rose almost a full thirty seconds to make sense of the scene and appreciate the way the Doctor’s arms stuck out rigidly at his sides, evidently unsure of what they ought to be doing. She considered the distress call Torchwood had just received, the enthusiasm of the boy in the cowboy hat, and then she doubled over laughing, followed shortly by Jake and the remaining two members of her team.


When the Doctor told the story, he would insist that it was he who first registered the laughter, and he would insist that it was this laughter that restarted his brain, as a manner of speaking, and granted him the clarity of thought required to extract himself from Rob’s rather firm grip.

What?” he sputtered finally, staggering back a few steps and looking from a bewildered Rob to a hysterical Rose.

“Oh God,” said Rob, whose expression shifted from bewildered to horrified almost instantaneously.

The Doctor was no religious man, but he thought that sounded about right.

“You – oh my God, you –” Rose stopped laughing long enough to straighten herself up, look at them, and burst into gales of laughter again.

“I’m… a little confused,” Rob admitted, looking from the Doctor to Rose and back again.

“Yes, I think you are,” the Doctor agreed.

For some reason, Rob looked offended. “You were flirting with me all night!”

The Doctor’s eyes widened. “What?”

Finally catching her breath, Rose stood straight and approached the two of them, stopping to clap a hand on Rob’s shoulder and frown sympathetically. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she sounded it, despite the restrained grin. “He’s just sort of... like that. Happens all the time. He’s totally oblivious.”

“I am not oblivious!” the Doctor yelped, suddenly feeling the need to straighten his suit jacket.

Rob and Rose exchanged a glance that the Doctor found he didn’t quite like.

“Why don’t you go talk to my friend Jake?” said Rose after a moment, patting Rob’s shoulder again and pointing Jake out of the crowd. “He’ll ask you a few questions about the incident, nothing too big.”

With a last, bizarre stare at the Doctor, Rob nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

Rose sauntered over to the Doctor after that, an all-too-amused grin on her lips. “Usually,” she began, “I’d be a little irritated that you went and got yourself snogged by a stranger. Again. This time I just think you deserve it.”

The Doctor scowled, watching as Rose fiddled with his lapels. “I wasn’t flirting.” She didn’t look convinced, and he narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t! It’s not my fault you lot mistake every hint of friendliness for sexual advances.”

“Maybe,” said Rose. She paused, and the wicked grin came back. “It’s definitely your fault for going into a gay bar alone to fight aliens with your murse, though.” She leaned up for a kiss, but the Doctor pulled back to send her a pointed glare.

“It’s a bag.”

When Rose told the story, she would always be sure to mention that he returned the murse the next day.

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