Doctor Who (Pete’s world) / Love Virtually crossover inspired Licie’s digital painting called “Love, Leo”. Takes place two months after Rose was stranded in Pete’s world. Just a short thing for now. Might continue if ya’ll like it. :)
She has been trapped in Pete’s world for two months when it happens. Desperate to fill the void in her heart, Rose threw herself into Torchwood, ignoring Jackie’s desperate pleas to just take it easy, to grieve. Rose doesn’t want to grieve. She wants to fight, she wants to go back to her own universe, and Torchwood is her best bet. Pete can’t deny her, she has knowledge of alien races that makes her perfect for field work. She is pragmatic, thinks quick on her feet, and her team respects her. Some days, it’s almost like the good old days, chasing aliens, saving the world. Other days, it’s still chasing aliens and saving the world, but she misses him fiercely, she finds herself reaching out her hand, expecting him to take it. But no one takes her hand, and no one understands why she suddenly gasps for air and shuts down, refusing to talk for hours.
Then it happens.
Two months in, and they have been tracking a weeping angel. It’s the first time Rose has had no idea what they are up against, and she has lost one of her team members, a sweet kid named Kahlen. They finally find the Angel hiding on a university campus, snatching students and sending them back in time. It takes careful planning and a bit of B & E to neutralize the Angel, but they manage. She should be happy. The mission was a success, and no one else will get sent back in time. But Rose is still wary. Something draws her back to the university, and she spends hours wandering the vast campus, looking for… something. Another Angel, another threat, something she might have overlooked. The university is filled with statues, gargoyles and busts, and her head spins as she realizes what a potential death trap she could have walked into. That is, until she walks into someone, and her attention is momentarily turned from the monsters of the deep dark nightmares to the present, where papers fly, circling to the ground around her.
“I’m so sorry…” she begins, crouching to help the person she walked into retrieve their things.
“That’s okay. Bit of a scatterbrain myself,” the person, a man, replies.
Rose freezes. The voice, it’s… For several seconds she doesn’t dare look up. Someone is using his voice, it has to be. She goes through her very long list of known aliens, trying to find a race that can take on the voice of someone else. She rules out Zygons. They need a live host, and she is certain there is no Doctor here.
“Miss, are you okay?” It’s his voice, but the accent… In her old universe, she would have said he was from Scotland, but Great Britain is different in Pete’s world.
Slowly, Rose looks up, and she regrets it instantly. It’s him, he’s here, but how? And why doesn’t he know her? Her Doctor, dressed casually in dark washed jeans, with a fitted dark brown wool coat that ends just under his narrow hips. His hair is artfully dishevelled, almost like the crazy mess she remembers. Her eyes find his, the exact same shade of brown, and she searches them for signs of recognition, but finds none.
“D-Doctor?” she finally stutters, a last resort.
“No, not yet. Not ever if things keep up this way. No, I’m just a research assistant. Are you looking for someone?”
The way his tongue curls around the r’s, how his o’s are bended into e’s, it breaks her. It’s not him, it can’t be (she is not sure if she wants him to be). Surely he would recognize her if it was him. She hastily shakes her head in reply to his question, too unsure of her voice to answer him aloud.
“You look like you might need a cuppa. I was actually heading for the cafeteria, would you like to join me?”
The way he looks at her, so earnestly and without any kind of recognition, it tugs at something in Rose’s heart. She wants to know him, this man who wears the Doctor’s face. She nods her head yes, and he sends her a smile to melt the ice caps, and they stand up. She looks to him, waiting for him to show her the way, ready to fall into step with him. It’s as if he knows she is more or less lost, but the way he shows it almost knocks her off her feet. He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers in an excruciatingly familar way. It hurts for a second, no, even less. Because finally it happens. A hand to hold. She takes his hand, his grip secure and warm.
“So, who do I have to thank for rearranging my notes into this lovely example of creative chaos?” he jokes as they make their way across a crowded quad.
She blushes. Her head really had been in the blue back there.
“Rose. I’m Rose,” she replies.
“Hello, Rose. I’m Leo. Leo Leike.”
His name is a relief, further proof that this is not the Doctor. No John Smith or James McCrimmon. No Doctor-just-the-Doctor. Leo Leike. The name rolls easily off her tongue, as if it was accustomed to forming the sounds from a lifetime of using it to call his attention. Leo. Leo Leike. She might even come to like it.