Disclaimer: I don't own the Doctor, nor Rose. The name "Florizel" is a Winter's Tale reference, which belongs to William Shakespeare.

"Ha!" the Doctor laughed triumphantly, exiting the TARDIS with broad strides. "Perfect landing! Rose Tyler, welcome to Florizel—the planet, mind, not the street."

She closed the door behind her to find them in a clearing of wind-blown dandelions. "So I suppose these are incredibly rare, indescribably dangerous alien dandelions that are sure to try and kill me, then?"

"Nope!" he grinned, popping the p. "Plain old, garden-variety dandelions from Earth. Funny thing, dandelions—they flourish everywhere. You'll find them in all corners of the galaxy. Galaxies, in fact."

"They're just weeds," she said, trying to sound bored, but his giddiness was catching.

"Just weeds? Have I taught you nothing? These extraordinary little plants are fighters! Thrive in all sorts of conditions. Pesticides can't kill them, most people won't eat them—which is preposterous, have you ever tried dandelion wine?—and they can pick up, move, and put down roots like that," he said, clicking his fingers. "Sound familiar?"

She grinned at him. "So you're sayin' humans are the weeds of the cosmos?"

"Human beings," he smiled fondly, and Rose bit back a smirk, feeling a speech coming on. "There's so much you don't know you don't know! You think you own whatever land you land on; the Earth is just a dead thing you can claim—wait. Sorry. That's Pocahontas."

"But the point still stands?" she asked, amused, but he wasn't listening.

"Colors of the Wind is a good guide to TARDIS travel, come to think. Let's see. Run the hidden pine trails of the forest—"

"We did that in Japan, with Jack."

"Taste the sun-sweet berries of the Earth?"

"We do that every day; speaking of which, we're out of jam—"

"Aha! Come roll in all the riches all around you—" On the word roll he tackled her around the middle, causing her to let out a surprised half-scream, half-laugh. He twisted in the air to break her fall, sending them tumbling over each other in a mess of limbs. They came to a stop a few rolls later, her body trapped under his. "—and for once," he breathed, looking her straight in the eye as they simultaneously realized she was pinned beneath him, "never wonder what they're worth."

"Um," she squeaked with a quick intake of breath, reddening under his gaze.

Shame, really. Such a beautiful moment, and she had to go and ruin it by sneezing from all the dandelion snow.

"So," she said awkwardly as the Doctor rolled off her, "what're they called here?"

"The dandelions? Just 'dandelions,' actually."

She snorted. "Not very impressive, is it?"

"It is!" he insisted, "considering the fact that they aren't consistently called dandelions on Earth. The word 'dandelion' doesn't even mean anything—has nothing to do with how dandy they are, which is a shame. It's just a corruption of the French name, dent de lion, referring to the coarsely toothed leaves."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep! The archaic English name is much more fitting. You called them pissabeds. It refers to—"

"I think I can work out what it refers to on my own, thanks."

"Cheeky. They're still called that in Italy and Spain now. Well, I say now. I mean the 21st century. Your now. Now-now, it's about… oh, 133 A.D., on Earth? So I doubt they're calling them much of anything that isn't in Latin."

"You don't say," she murmured, fashioning a crown with flower-stems.

He glanced at the project in her hands and grinned. "In Hungary they call dandelions gyermekláncfű—literally, 'child's chain grass.'"

"Anyone have a name for the little puffballs?" she asked, holding up her completed circlet.

He bowed his neck to give her access to the crown of his head. "The Germans, actually—though of course, they have a name for everything. They call it pusteblume: 'blowing flower.' How do I look?" he asked, nervously patting at his hair.

"I used to make wishes on 'em," Rose admitted, "when I was a kid."

He stopped fussing with the crown to look at her properly. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I thought the parachutes held the wishes. If the seeds hit the ground, it wouldn't come true, but if they floated away…"

"What?" the Doctor whispered, seeming enthralled.

"I thought the wind'd take it to… I dunno, heaven, or something. That my dad would hear them. It's silly," she mumbled, embarrassed.

He smiled at her then—the soft, sexy smile that hadn't changed one iota from his last body to the next; the one he saved especially for her—and she promptly forgot what they were talking about.

"Go on, then."

"Sorry?" she blinked, dazed, and he chuckled.

"Make a wish," he clarified, holding up a plucked dandelion to her.

"I… I don't know what to wish for. Seems selfish."

"Selfish?" he asked, baffled, and it was her turn to laugh.

"I'm lying in a field of wildflowers on a planet called Florizel, light-years away from home, with you. What more could I want?" She reached out to adjust his crown; it was perilously close to falling.

"Would it help if we wished together?" he suggested.

She frowned. "But how will I know what you're wishing for?"

"Well, we'll decide, obviously. How about—"

"No!" she yelped, clamping both her hands on his mouth.

"Murph rawg?" he asked from behind her palms, blinking.

"You can't say it out loud. You'll jinx it!"

He rolled his eyes. "Murgho bmmogree brrnwe mn wa surrogh finm, gwu hwu?"

"Sorry, what?" she laughed, letting him go.

"I said, 'You don't honestly believe in that sort of thing, do you?'"

She raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who's been saying never say never ever and a storm's coming," she pointed out, in an exaggerated man-voice. "I can be dark and ominous if I want. Don't jinx our wish."

"Oh, very well," he grumbled, doing a bad job of hiding how charmed he was. (The crown of yellow flowers didn't help.) "But how can it be our wish if we don't know what the other's wishing?"

"I guess we don't," she said with a shrug.

"Or," he pondered, drawing out the single syllable as long as he could, "maybe that's the wish? Us wishing for each other to have the same wish as we're wishing the wish?"

"Sure," she said with a laugh. "On the count of three, then?"

"On the count of three," he agreed. "One, two, three—"

And together they watched as the seeds rode the wind of their combined breath to the sky.