Title: Enough

Author: shan21non

Pairing: Ten/Rose

Rating: Teen

Beta: The incredible iluvmusicals

Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, then Madame de Pompadour would've lived out her days blissfully ignorant of anyone in a long brown coat.

Summary: After the events of The Girl in the Fireplace, Rose, Mickey, and the Doctor think about how much is enough.


He just left. Left her stranded three thousand years in the future with no way home. Barreled through a one-way time window, knowing full well that they might never see each other again. And he did it all for her.

"Why her?" she blurts out as he trudges back into the TARDIS.

His head jerks up and it only takes a split second for her to really see him. His eyes barely reach her. He's hardly there, but what little there is of him is anguished.

"Why did they think they could repair the ship with the head of Madame de Pompadour?" she corrects herself.

She doesn't really listen to his answer. It's not the question that she wanted to ask. 'Why her?' Yes, but not why did the clockwork androids want her.

She can't stop fidgeting. She wants so badly to ask him her real question, but the weariness in his eyes stops her. So instead she asks a perfectly reasonable question.

"You all right?"

He looks up again and raises his eyebrows in mild surprise.

"I'm always all right."

He shoots her a reassuring smile that isn't reassuring at all. It's so weak that it hurts to look at. That isn't the way her Doctor smiles. His grin is all teeth and cheekbones and eyes nearly crinkled shut in pure glee. This is wrong.

"Come on, Rose. Time to show me around the rest of this place," Mickey says beside her.

There's nothing left to say to the Doctor, nothing that she can say when his mind is so clearly with someone else. So, she lets Mickey tug on her hand, and she follows him out of the console room.

"This'll be your room," she says after a few moments of walking down seemingly endless corridors.

Mickey eyes the blue door curiously.

"This the room you always use for guests, then?" he asks.

Rose feels a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"Don't really have a lot of guests. The TARDIS sort of shifts the rooms around as she sees fit. I just figured since this one's next to mine, it'd be yours," she shrugs.

"Perfect," Mickey replies, and when she looks up, he's grinning at her.

She can't resist that smile. She mirrors his expression in spite of mood.

"So, what's included in guest accommodations aboard the TARDIS?" Mickey asks matter-of-factly.

She opens his door and sees herself in.

"Well, mine's en suite so I assume yours is too." She strides across the room and Mickey follows. "Yup! That'll be the washroom over there."

Peeking his head into the bathroom, he nods approvingly. Rose turns her attention to the opposite end of the room.

"And here's a cupboard for your—oh! You haven't got any clothes. No worries. I didn't either when I first came onboard," she informs him helpfully.

"I remember," Mickey says, giving her a pointed look.

She pauses with her hand on the cupboard door. Of course. He was there. She physically ran from him and into the TARDIS. They both pause at the memory. She wonders briefly what he feels when he remembers it. Fear? Betrayal? Abandonment? All she remembers feeling at the time was pure, unadulterated exhilaration, but now, looking back, she feels just the tiniest stab of guilt.

"Right. Well, the TARDIS just sort of… provides," she says enigmatically.

Mickey squints at her.

"It'll just know my size?"

She nods.

"That's weird," he mutters, plopping down on the bed.

"Oi! Be polite or you'll end up with very snug trousers," she scolds, before adding, "Although, that would be just fine with me."

She does a lousy job of hiding her smirk, and he gives her a scandalized look before breaking out into a grin.

"Cheeky," he mutters.

She laughs, and he yanks her elbow, sending her tumbling down next to him. They sit, hip-to-hip, feet dangling off the edge of the bed. She sighs and tilts her head so that it rests on his shoulder.

They used to sit like this all the time back on Earth. Before the Doctor. About an hour into a football match when Rose's attention began to drift she would lean in and just enjoy the nearness of him. Mickey would inevitably ruin it by leaping up to cheer or curse his team, but it was always nice for a little while.

Now, leaning against him, she can appreciate how much he's grown—how much they've both grown—in their year apart. They aren't kids anymore. He is more important to her now than ever. Her life on the TARDIS is confusing, her relationship with the Doctor ambiguous at best, but this—him—this makes sense. This is normal.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a few minutes have passed in silence.

"'Course. I'm fine."

"Yeah. You're about as convincing as the Doctor," Mickey replies.

She doesn't lift her head from his shoulder. She knows that if she has to look at him, her face will give her away.

"Really, I'm fine."

She feels him shake his head.

"Really, you're not."

For some reason, it's not until he calls her on it that she really feels it. She squeezes her eyes shut against the soft fabric of his t-shirt and takes a shaky breath. In and out.

"It's okay, Rose," Mickey says, and she feels his voice reverberating in his chest.

She squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut.

"I know," she says, trying to mean it.

"No, I mean… it's okay to be upset. He left us."

A small sob escapes her lips before she can stop it. Embarrassed, she brings a hand up to Mickey's shirt and twists the material in her fingers, clutching it to cover her face.

"He came back," she says defensively.

She feels his hand cover hers. Slowly, she relaxes her fingers until his shirt falls free again. He doesn't remove his hand.

"Yeah, but how?" he asks.

She frowns.

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it does. Because I think it was an accident. When he left, he didn't think he was gonna make it back. I think he got lucky."

Mickey says all of this like it's an accusation, but she can't dwell on it. The Doctor is back, and she is gone, and things will go back to normal now. That will just have to be enough.

"It doesn't matter," she says stubbornly.

"It does. We might've been stranded. So what if he lucked out and got back? It matters that when he left us he didn't think he would!" Mickey nearly shouts.

He's right. Of course he's right.

"Why her?"

She doesn't even realize that she's said it out loud until she hears his reply.

"I don't know."

She feels one tear, then two roll down her cheeks, and she presses her face into his shirt to dry them before continuing.

"He had a choice, and he didn't even hesitate. He chose her over me—us. Why her?"

The question comes out sounding more desperate than she'd like.

"I don't know, Rose," Mickey repeats, but Rose isn't listening to him anymore.

Her embarrassment quickly gives way to anger. She shifts against Mickey, opening her eyes and drawing back so that, finally, she's facing him.

"The thing is, Mickey, he actually had me thinking I was special," she says.

The only reason she continues is that she doesn't see pity in his eyes. His brow crinkles in distress, but he's still looking at her like she's Rose, not some poor thing to feel sorry for. So she doesn't stop.

"Back on Earth, the night we met Sarah Jane, I asked him if he would leave me like all the others; do to me what he did to them. And he was so certain. 'No,' he said. 'Not to you.'"

Mickey's hand is still on hers, and he gives it a squeeze.

"And then this," she says, her voice cracking.

She pulls away, staring off in the direction of the console room.

"You were right. He's just like any other bloke. Minute someone prettier and more interesting comes along, he's gone," she mutters.

"That French floozy? A better catch than you? Come off it," Mickey scoffs.

He's smiling so genuinely at her, but she's in no mood for his charity.

"She was the unofficial queen of France. I'm a shop girl from London," she states.

The smile drops off Mickey's face. He takes both of her hands now. She looks down at their joined hands and doesn't resist when he pulls them to his lap. They rest there, on his leg, and he says nothing. It's not until she slowly drags her eyes up to his face that he finally speaks.

"You are so much more than that," he says.

She feels an actual, physical jolt in her heart. It's not until the words are out of his mouth that she realizes how much she needed to hear them. Her eyes sting and she blinks away the tears that gather there before they can fall.

Mickey; simple, uncomplicated Mickey. Of course he knows exactly what to say. Mickey Smith is quite possibly the best ex-boyfriend in the galaxy.

"And if he let himself forget that for even a second, shame on him. He doesn't deserve you."

She feels her throat tighten, and her hands clench within his.

"He doesn't have me," she tells him.

It's true. The Doctor doesn't know Rose the way that Mickey does. Most days Rose thinks he'll never know her that way, isn't interested. But Mickey was. Still is. She's sure of it. He's so good to her, even after all the times she abandoned him or pushed him away. She can't help returning to the moment that she literally pulled away and ran from him to the TARDIS. It was only the first of many times that she chose the Doctor over him. She swallows hard, remembering all the subsequent moments when she let him hold her, let him hope, knowing all the while she'd leave him again.

Yet somehow, after all that, he still looks at her the way he did when they were together.

She loves the way he looks at her.

"Then the Doctor's a fool," Mickey says.

The sincerity in his voice is too much. Without another thought, Rose closes the distance between them and presses her lips against his.


She's kissing him. She's really kissing him. He's wanted this for so long. He's been so desperate to feel her lips against his, for her to need him the way he needs her. He's dreamt it dozens of times since she left him.

The kiss starts out soft and sad and innocent, but a second later Rose opens her mouth and runs the tip of her tongue against the seam of his lips and he parts them without thinking. Their tongues meet and he shudders at the familiar sensation.

'Yes,' he thinks. 'Finally.'

Their hands, which were joined in his lap, break apart as they reach for each other simultaneously. He buries his fingers in her hair and her hands find his shoulder blades and pull him closer.

"I missed you," he murmurs into the kiss.

She pulls back a millimeter.

"Me too," she says, her lips brushing against his as they move.

That's all he needs. He's kissing her again, and her hands are sliding down from his shoulders to his back, then his hips. Her fingers slip under the hem of his t-shirt and continue until they find bare skin. Unable to help himself, he groans into her mouth. The noise seems to spur her on, because suddenly her hands are on the button of his jeans, popping it free. He feels the pressure of his zip disappear and then her hand is pressed against him, soft and unhesitating, and it's everything he's been hoping for come true.

With another groan he allows her to push him back on the bed, their mouths still fused together, her knees on either side of his hips, her hand still down the front of his jeans. His eyes are squeezed shut with the effort of not losing himself right now, so he doesn't see her expression. It's not until he feels something warm and wet hit his cheek that he realizes all is not right.

His eyes pop open and he gently presses his hands to her shoulders, forcing their mouths apart. His eyes focus on hers and he sees tears in them.

"Don't stop," she urges him, leaning back down.

His hands hold her fast.

"No. You're upset," he says, pleading with his tone for her to stop and think for a moment.

Her hands come up to rest on his, and for just a moment he believes that she's come to her senses. She takes in a trembling breath, but on her exhalation she pushes his hands from her shoulders and leans down to recapture his lips.

"I want this," she whispers just before their lips meet again.

She wants him. He focuses on that single thought while he lets her run her hands down his body again. He tries not to think about it when another wet teardrop falls on his cheek. Then another. Then another.

He pushes her back again, apology written on his features when he sees her eyebrows drawn together in hurt and confusion and the tear trails on her cheeks.

"This isn't going to happen, Rose," he says softly.

The look on her face, the misery in her drawn features, the pain in her eyes, it's all too much. He has to look away for a moment. He never wanted to hurt her, but he knows he's bollocksed this up.

"Why not?" she pleads, but even as she says it, she releases him completely, allowing him to move away from her.

His shoulders hit the headboard. He sits back and zips himself up, still unable to look her in the eyes.

"I don't want to be your second choice," he admits.

It's the truth. He could have told her it was because she was crying, or because he didn't want to take advantage of her in her vulnerable state, but the truth is, he just doesn't want to be the tin dog anymore.

He knows why she's crying. She's thinking of him. The Doctor. He doesn't want to be the man waiting in the wings for Rose to realize that he's as good as she's going to get. He doesn't want to be the one she settles for.

"You're not," she says.

He looks up now, and sees nothing but earnestness there. She might think she's telling him the truth, but she isn't. He shoots her a deeply skeptical look but doesn't reply. Her features screw up in anguish or frustration; he's not sure which.

"I'm terrible to you," she whispers, moving away.

He reaches out and grabs her hand.

"No, you're not."

He pats an empty spot on the mattress beside him. When she doesn't move, he tugs her hand and she reluctantly comes to sit next to him.

He doesn't want her feeling sorry for him. If she's strung him along, it's partly because he let her. Whatever happened in the past, it doesn't matter. If he does this tonight, if he gives himself to her like he wants to, then it doesn't matter that he's traveled through time and space. It won't matter that he's trying to be brave and new and different. He'll still be Mickey the Idiot.

"I am," Rose maintains. "I'm not special enough for him and I'm not good enough for you. I know it. I was just hoping that, I dunno, just for tonight—"

Her voice breaks off then in an effort not to break down in tears. It kills him to see her so desperate and insecure. It's so unlike her.

"Don't say that. Rose, you're brilliant. I hate that he's done this to you! You never talk about yourself like this. He's the one who's not good enough."

She draws her knees up to her chest and stares down at the bedspread.

"He's wonderful," she says to the bedspread.

Mickey can't help the surge of anger that rushes through him. He scowls at her profile.

"How can you say that after today?" he hisses.

She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she turns to face him, and he can see that the tears are gone.

"You don't know him, Mickey. Not really. Traveling with the Doctor… there's nothing like it. He's been around for so long, but he still gets joy from the littlest things." She pauses and a dreamy smile graces her face. "I think he enjoys showing me the universe even more than he does seeing it for himself."

"You still love him," he says.

It's not a question. He knows now that there's nothing left for him and Rose. No matter what the Doctor does, no matter how much he doesn't deserve her, she can't see past the flash. Not for the first time, Mickey wishes he had a time machine.

"Mickey," Rose mutters.

She slips her hand into his, but before she can continue, he cuts her off.

"Don't tell me you love me. It doesn't matter. You love him more," he says petulantly.

He can't help it. He's hurting too. Rose doesn't have the market cornered on feeling brokenhearted.

"It's not like that," she denies.

He gives her hand a squeeze.

"It's okay, Rose."

He even manages to give her a smile. A quick, friendly, 'Hey, it's fine that you prefer a time-traveling alien to me' grin.

"I do love you, Mickey," she says vehemently, squeezing his hand back.

His grin relaxes into a very sad half-smile.

"I know. But it's not enough, is it?" he asks.

They look at each other then. Neither turns away.

"I'm not enough," Mickey clarifies.

She frowns then, and grips his hands more tightly than ever.

"No. You're too good for me," she counters.

Mickey lets out a small laugh, which only makes Rose frown harder.

"We both know that's not true," he says, almost chiding her.

"It is," she maintains.

He just smiles at her and shakes his head, but he won't contradict her again. Let her believe what she needs to.

"You know what? You're right," he says.

At her surprised look, he rushes to continue.

"No, not about that. I mean to say it doesn't matter how the Doctor got back."

He gives her leg a friendly pat.

"You and him, you'll be fine. Come tomorrow evening, you'll be laughing about some inside joke that happened with an alien on the planet Korschtoop or something," he says with forced cheerfulness.

"Yeah," she says, her tone full of disbelief.

Inhaling deeply, he suddenly pushes himself up off the bed.

"I could murder a cup of tea. You interested?" he asks.

She seems a bit dazed by his sudden change of mood so it takes her a second to respond. She still manages to shake her head and answer him.


She still looks somewhat frozen, and he can't bear the thought of sending her off to her room. Not like this. Forcing a smile, he speaks again.

"Why don't you stay here? When I come back we can keep chatting. Or go to bed."

She turns to him, brows raised, and his own eyes fly wide open.

"You know, just bed! Sleeping. Just sleep. Nothing funny," he stutters, gesticulating wildly, mimicking his head on a pillow, snoring away.

She smiles. Just for a split second, but he sees it.

"Thanks. That sounds good," she says quietly.

He nods, still fidgeting awkwardly between the door and the bed.

"Kitchen's to the left when you exit," she supplies.

He nods again and makes for the door. As he steps out, she calls out some more directions. He hears something about a ballroom and a swimming pool, but figures he'll wing it.

On his way, he realizes that his convenient excuse to leave and get some air might've been more necessary than he thought. He really could use some tea. He's just decided to give up on the girl of his dreams. He's committed to moving on, creating a new life, finding meaning somehow. That surely requires a good hot cup of earl grey.

He finds the kitchen with minimal problems, only getting turned around only once and finding himself at the bottom of an empty swimming pool. Once he's reached his destination he's pleased to find plain old earl grey. He'd been dreading having to make sense of some alien tea that required steeping in acid or something.

He tries not to think of Rose, but it's impossible. He second-guesses himself as he puts the kettle on. Then again when the kettle whistles. Two more times while the tea is steeping. Again when he adds just a splash of milk to his cup.

Each time it happens he wants to forget that whole 'becoming a better man' thing and run to her room, tell her to sod the Doctor, and snog her like they're kids again. Each time he just barely manages to talk himself down. He's never been known for his willpower, but this is something he has to do for Rose just as much as for himself.

It's not until halfway through his tea that he starts to really believe that he's done the right thing. That's when the Doctor walks into the room, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He's holding something that looks like a toaster with metallic wings, fiddling with the heating dial. He looks up and grins.

"Ah, Mickey! Have you seen Rose? I need her to help me steady the TARDIS while I close down the last of the time windows on that ship."

Mickey frowns and sets down his cup. This is the man who looked so forlorn thirty minutes ago? Is that how long it takes him to get over a girl? Then it's back to toying with his ship? Does he even care that Rose is hurt? Does he even know?

"She went to bed," he replies coldly.

The Doctor registers Mickey's tone with a raised eyebrow, but doesn't address it.

"No, she's not. I checked her room first," he says briskly.

"Not in her room," Mickey replies.

There is a beat during which neither of them speaks. Mickey gazes frostily over the top of his cup, and the Doctor seems too taken aback to say anything. That's quite the change.

"Oh," is all he can manage a few seconds later.

He knows what the Doctor must be thinking, and as much as he'd like to encourage the idea, he knows he needs to set the record straight.

"It's not like that. Not that it'd be any business of yours if it was," he mutters.

The Doctor seems to have snapped out of whatever daze he'd been in.

"Excuse me? Any business of mine? This is my ship!" he snaps indignantly.

Mickey lets out in incredulous laugh.

"Which makes it your business what Rose and I do in my room?" he demands.

The Doctor places the flying toaster down on the table and holds up his index finger.

"First of all, it's hardly your room. You only just got on the TARDIS and you're a guest. A temporary guest. And second," he pauses to put up a second finger. "If there is cavorting going on in my ship, then it is most certainly my business."

Mickey's eyebrows fly up to meet his hairline. He can't believe the gall of this man.

"Oh that's rich! As if you weren't doing plenty of cavorting of your own with that Parisian tart," he retorts.

The Doctor visibly bristles at the mention of Reinette. For a moment, Mickey is sure that he'll snap, shout at him, kick him off the TARDIS. Instead, the Doctor nods once, briefly, and takes a seat opposite Mickey the table.

"I don't cavort. There was no cavorting," he says very calmly, but the warning in his voice is clear. Tread lightly, Mickey Smith.

Mickey ignores the vague feeling of intimidation and refuses to give an inch.

"Really? Flirting, drinks, dancing? Sounds like cavorting to me," he argues.

"If that's your definition of cavorting, you really need to get out more," comes the Doctor's dismissive reply.

Of course the Doctor would insult him. He can't resist it. Mickey the Idiot, easiest target around.

"It was the eighteenth century! That's gotta be scandalous enough to qualify as cavorting!" he insists.

"Clearly you've never been to eighteenth century Versailles," the Doctor

"No, but you have, of course. You've been everywhere, yeah? Girl in every port, is that it?" Mickey says accusingly.

"Not even remotely," the Doctor says, his voice low and dangerous.

Mickey pushes his tea aside and points a finger in the Doctor's face.

"Listen, Doctor, just leave Rose alone tonight. Let her rest. Yours is the last face she needs to see right now," he bites out.

"Is that right?" the Doctor asks, a challenging smirk spreading across his gob.

He might as well be laughing in Mickey's face.

"Look, you don't get to act like the one who knows Rose better. Not right now," Mickey warns him.

The smirk remains firmly planted on the Doctor's face.

"Hate to have to be the one to break it to you, Mickey, but I do," he boasts.

Mickey laughs, because now he gets it.

"You haven't got a clue!" he exclaims.

The Doctor frowns then, and he rises from the table.

"Right then. I'm going to go get Rose," he says, as if Mickey never spoke.

Mickey springs up out of his seat.

"Leave her alone," he counters.

The Doctor waves him off, snagging the flying toaster from the table and making for the corridor.

"You can have your cuddle later. This is important. I need her now," he announces, the toaster's cord swinging wildly.

Mickey moves faster, blocking the doorway before the Doctor can leave.

"Oh, you need her now, do you? What about five-and-a-half hours ago?" he demands.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks impatiently.

The Doctor squints down at him.

"You left us," Mickey charges.

"I came back," the Doctor hastily replies, holding his arms out wide as proof of his physical presence.

Mickey, in contrast, folds his arms across his chest and glares at the man in front of him.

"You know Rose so well, but you have no idea how much she's hurting right now."

The Doctor gave him an exasperated eye roll.

"I think you underestimate her, Mickey. She knew I'd be back. She's fine."

He makes for the door, but Mickey shifts to the left to block him again.

"She's not fine. You left her for another woman!" he argues.

There is a brief pause, during which the Doctor takes a step backwards. Apparently realizing that Mickey will not be ignored, he resigns himself to placing the toaster back on the table and taking a seat. Then, taking a deep breath, he speaks slowly to Mickey, as if he is a very small a child.

"That's not how it was at all."

"Wasn't it?" Mickey retorts.

Any semblance of patience disappears when the Doctor throws his hands up in the air.

"No! You humans and your tiny brains, always taking a complex situation and whittling it down to some archetypal cliché," he rants.

Mickey nods sarcastically, making his way back toward the Doctor.

"Go on then, call me thick, but I'm not the one who's oblivious to the fact that I hurt my best friend."

The Doctor pauses again at this. Only now he seems to doubt his earlier certainty that Rose is just fine. The wanker.

Shaking his head, he begins, "Rose knows that I…"

His voice trails off.

"That you what, Doctor?" Mickey snaps. "That you promised you'd never abandon her only to leave her stranded on your very next trip?"

It seems this particular fact hadn't occurred to the Doctor until this moment. His eyes fly wide open, as does his mouth, and he struggles to respond.

"I—That's not—" he sputters.

But Mickey is on the warpath, full of righteous anger, and he cuts in again.

"You promised her. You said just yesterday, or whatever 'yesterday' means in the bloody TARDIS—You said you wouldn't leave her like you did Sarah Jane and the others. You made her think she was special."

"She is special," the Doctor says fiercely.

Mickey arches an eyebrow.

"She doesn't feel special, Doctor. She feels replaceable. You did that to her. And when people hurt Rose, that's my business," he proclaims.

The Doctor eyes Mickey for a moment, then looks down at the table. He seems to deflate.

"Rose knows I wouldn't have left her. Not for long."

"You would've though! If not for a malfunctioning fireplace, you would've done!" comes Mickey's harsh reply.

The Doctor's jaw clenches. He inhales deeply and purses his lips, coming to a decision.

"I need to see her."

He rises from his seat again, but Mickey reaches across the table and lays a hand on his arm.

"You need to leave her alone," he orders.

The Doctor looks back at him, and Mickey tries to convey somehow that this isn't him trying to mark his territory with Rose. This is all about her. She needs time alone. She needs to not think about the Doctor for a while, get past it. The Doctor seems to sense Mickey's sincerity, because he falls back into his chair.

"She feels replaceable?" he asks, still disbelieving, or maybe just hopeful that it isn't true.

"What d'you expect? Blimey, I thought I was a rubbish boyfriend, but you really take the cake."

The Doctor reels back at this.

"Rose and I—"

"Aren't like that. I know. Doesn't change the fact that you really cocked this up," Mickey interrupts.

The Doctor pauses, staring absently at the flying toaster.

"Yeah. S'pose I did," he murmurs.

Mickey's jaw drops.

"What?" he sputters.

The Doctor takes a deep breath and looks back up at him.

"You're right," he admits matter-of-factly.

Mickey frowns.

"I am? I mean, of course I am," he recovers.

"There's that famous Mickey confidence," the Doctor quips, smirking.

Mickey feels his cheeks burn.

"Hey!" he grumbles.

The Doctor isn't listening. He nods resolutely, as if he's just come to a very important decision.

"Right then. Special trip after both of you get some rest," he announces.

"Special trip?" Mickey repeats.

"Barcelona, I think," the Doctor continues, grinning.

Mickey squints at him.


"Promised Rose I'd take her there. That ought to do it," the Doctor replies, sounding rather proud of himself.

"That ought to do it?" Mickey parrots in amazement.

"Why are you just repeating everything I say? What kind of tea are you drinking? Does it contain a neurotoxic speech inhibitor?" the Doctor asks, giving Mickey's mug a deeply suspicious glance.

"I'm repeating it because it's so daft I can't—hold on. What do you mean does it contain neurotoxic speech inhibitor?" Mickey says in disbelief.

"There you go repeating again. And you call me daft," the Doctor rejoins.

Mickey pushes his mug to the far end of the table.

"Do you keep poisoned tea in here? Stuff that'll mess me up, make me repeat everything you say?" he demands.

The Doctor rolls his eyes again, dismissing Mickey's panic with an unconcerned wave of his hand.

"Don't be ridiculous. What d'you mean I'm daft?"

Mickey scoffs.

"Bloody unbelievable. You really think you can just sweep Rose off to Spain and make things all better?"

The Doctor gives him a look that implies deep and enduring exasperation.

"I was talking about Barcelona the planet, not the city. Really, Mickey, try to keep up."

"Oh, well then that'll fix it all," Mickey snaps.

The Doctor beams at him.


Mickey shakes his head and pulls his mug back towards him.

"You're hopeless," he grunts.

"Drink your tea," the Doctor orders.

Mickey peers anxiously into the mug.

"You're sure it's not poisoned?" he asks.

The Doctor waggles his eyebrows enigmatically, but doesn't reply.

"Tosser," Mickey grumbles, but he takes a sip anyways.

The Doctor smirks, apparently thinking he's won this round. As long as he doesn't try to bother Rose tonight, Mickey doesn't care how smug he is.

He takes a few more sips of his possibly-but-probably-not-poisoned tea. He's just about to ask if the item on the table is actually a flying toaster when a voice in the hallway draws both of their attention towards the door.

"Got tired of waiting around in bed. Thought I'd join you for that cuppa—oh."