drabble: some women want flowers
“I smell chips,” said Rose.
“You’re having olfactory hallucinations,” said the Doctor.
“No, really—it smells like it’s coming from…”—she looked around slowly, sniffing—”…over there.”
“Rose, we’re on an interstellar cargo ship hundreds of light-years from Earth. You’re smellin’ things that aren’t there. I promise.” He handed her a stapler gun. “Now try and focus.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Then why’s that sign say ‘Cafeteria 0.2km Ahead’?”
“…Well.” The Doctor frowned, straightening his leather jacket. “You never know,” he said matter-of-factly. “It might be a trap.”
Rose rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help her smile. “You still owe me chips, you know. Haven’t forgot, have you?”
“Never could dare,” he assured her.
“Well come on then, tightwad. Second date. You know what they say, turnabout’s fair play and all that. Chips are on you this time, mister.” She caught her tongue between her teeth in inviting grin. “And no excuses, ‘cause you’ve got your currency chip on you. There’s none of this business that can’t wait ‘til after lunch.”
“Some women want flowers,” said the Doctor, almost to himself, as he pocketed his sonic with a sigh. “Rose Tyler wants potatoes. Unusual girl, you are.”
“I don’t hear you complainin’.”
“Never will, Rose,” he grinned widely and took her hand. “Never will.”