| Khaelis Fanfictions|

He glared at the door as if it were the one responsible and took his phone out of his pocket. Past eight in the evening, London, posh neighbourhood. He knew it would cost two bags of pure gold and diamonds to have a locksmith change the lock, but he didn’t have much choice. At least, he hadn’t lost his wallet. He shoved his hand in his inner pocket with a sigh that was immediately sucked in through a gasp when his fingers met nothing but the cool silk of the lining.

“Fuck’s sake, this has to be a bloody joke,” he cursed under his breath, going over the same pockets, again, patting them, again, as if it would magically appear if he prayed hard enough.

He threw worried and desperate glances around to find someone, or something that could help him out of his misery. No one, nothing. Except his neighbour precariously balancing himself on a stepladder to cut dead branches in his pear tree - someone who grew pears couldn’t be trusted, he knew that, but without keys, money or hope, he was his only way out. With a resolved shrug, he walked to the white-picket fence.

“Excuse-me!” he called out over the sound of clicking shears to grab his attention. “Sorry to bother you, I’ve lost my keys and I need to climb over the hedge of my backyard to access the back door. D’you mind if I borrow your stepladder for a minute?”

It probably was a bad plan, a very stupid plan, but he only realized that once his hands struggled to find purchase on the thin trellis behind the wall of pointy branches and thorns hidden among the leaves of the hedge and his legs quivered on the unstable stepladder. Too late to back down.

He swiftly threw a leg over the hedge all while pushing himself up on the trellis, and he would have landed just fine on the grass if his trousers hadn’t hooked into the pointy branches and thorns. He cursed at feel of his leg getting stuck, winced at the dreadful sound of ripping material, cursed again when his weight got the better of the seams, and moaned in pain when he crashed down on his shoulder.

“You alright, mate?” the neighbour asked from behind the hedge - the smile in his words didn’t go unnoticed, but what else could be expected from a man who grew pears anyway? “Fine,” he grunted as he scrambled back to his feet, massaging his sore shoulder and assessing the damage to his beloved pinstriped trousers. “Thanks for your help, much appreciated. See you later.”

He didn’t wait for an answer and walked straight to the door he hoped was actually unlocked like it should be. He rolled his eyes in relief, the doorknob turning without a protest, and while he had half a mind to crash on his couch for the rest of the evening, he knew he had to do something about his lost credit card and papers and keys. Those were definitely the worst things he had ever lost, expensive tie and cute mug be damned.

Just as he was about to pick up his phone, a loud series of knocks echoed from his front door.

“Oh, this better be important,” he grumbled, going to the hideous bowl sitting on the coffee table to fetch the spare key.

He was set on sending whoever was behind that door away as fast as he could without sounding too rude, make the few calls required about his lost possessions and forget about this awful day with a good, long night of well-deserved sleep. Whoever they were, they needed to be gone. Soon.

“Hello, Mister… John Smith?”

Okay, maybe not too soon. He gaped for a moment at this beautiful blonde woman standing there, a big cardboard box in her hands, a tiny smile on her lips.

“You are?” he asked after he managed to wipe his delighted surprise from his face. “‘M Rose, Rose Tyler,” she answered, nibbling her lower lip as if she were embarrassed to be there. “I think I’ve found some stuff that belongs to you.” “Oh, please tell me you have my wallet.” “Yeah, that’s how I found your address,” she nodded - her tiny smile turned into a full grin at the relieved breath he blew through his nose. “And I suppose the keys are yours too, aren’t they?” “You are a lifesaver, Miss Tyler, and I love you,” he beamed at her, taking a step to the side to let her in. “Please, do come in. Would you like some tea?” “Only if you’d like some too,” she shrugged, the movement causing whatever was inside her box to rattle and clatter.

A few minutes later, they were both sitting on the couch, two mugs of steaming chamomile tea on the coffee table. Rose - what a lovely name that was, Rose, and what a beautiful woman she was, Rose - reached into her purse and took out a dark blue wallet and a heavy keyring she dropped into his awaiting palms.

“Where did you find them?” he asked, flipping through his wallet to make sure nothing was missing. “In that coffee shop on Lexington street, you know, near the university,” she told him as she clasped her hands over her lap. “I found your professor badge inside it, so I wanted to drop them at the lost property office, but I thought… Well, I think I’ve found more than just your keys and your wallet.”

She purposefully eyed the box at her feet, and his heart started to thud just a bit harder against his ribs. He had heard about it a few times, but had never really believed, nor cared about it much. He was a scientist, he didn’t believe in fate, destiny, soulmates, and all those ethereal things people liked to consider real and veritable. It made no sense. People couldn’t fall in love thanks to lost plastic spoons and, should he dare think, wallets and keys. Rose seemed to be a very nice woman, a very kind and clever woman, she had found his things and brought them back, but if that were enough to fall in love, he would have fallen in love a hundred times before. Except he had never fallen in love. Not once. Maybe that was because this Rose truly was his soulmate, and he couldn’t love anyone else.

He disguised his derisive chuckle under a discreet cough and took a sip of his tea.

“So, what else do you think you’ve found, then?” he asked, suddenly uneasy to look into her eyes and find something else, something he wasn’t looking for. “Well, that’s just a wild guess, but… It does have your name on it.”

She rummaged through her box, that seemed to be rather full, and picked up a heavy book, all leather, engraved with golden letters and silver drawings. His heart leapt, or stopped, he couldn’t be sure. He knew that book. His favourite book, the one he had lost a little more than a year back. He reverently took it from her hands, ran his fingers over the thick cover and turned to the second page where his name was written in sharp, small letters in a corner. She had found his wallet, his keys, his book. And if all that stuff in that box was his, too, then maybe… Just maybe...

“The thing is, you’re not the only John Smith around, you know,” Rose explained, unaware of the conflicted thoughts shooting through his brain. “I found it on a bench in Green Park and took it with me. I thought, well, maybe one day I could give it back to its owner. It is yours, isn’t it?” “Uh, yeah, it is,” he nodded with a pleased smile that greatly contrasted with his inner turmoil. “Quite an act of providence, right? What were the odds of you finding my lost stuff twice?” “Could be more than twice, John,” she pointed out, a light blush rising on her cheeks. “Could be lots and lots of times. If what’s in that box is all yours, that is.”

He didn’t know if he wanted to find out everything she had gathered belonged to him. If it did, providence or luck wouldn’t be enough to justify it. It would probably mean he had been wrong, very wrong to refuse to believe in what he called preposterous faith in magic. He had been wrong, very wrong to refuse to see what the drawer he walked past everyday was. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense, the less he wanted to believe. If he believed the contents of that box were his, if he believed the contents of his drawer were hers, if he believed in soulmates… He would have to believe this Rose who had knocked on his door out of the blue was his. Believe this beautiful woman was the one. The love of his life.

His heart stopped, for a few seconds, just to give it the necessary momentum to break into a wild gallop that threatened to crush his ribcage. She had just taken out a tie. He knew that tie, too. What he didn’t know was what the Heck was happening to him. He was having an attack. Probably. That was the only explanation he could find to the odd warmth that spread through his limbs and the blurred filter that fell before his eyes. Had Rose always looked so perfect? It didn’t matter. She was perfect. God, it was becoming stifling hot in this house, he should open the drawer, no, the windows, get some of her stuff in that drawer to show her he was the one for her, no, get some air, just some air.

“John, are you alright?” Rose asked when he failed to speak despite his mouth opening and closing on regular intervals, an alarming red hue colouring his cheeks. “Oh yes, always alright, me, just a little hot,”, he nodded, pulling on his tie knot with a finger to loosen it.  “Don’t you think it’s hot? It is hot, isn’t it, my air conditioner must be broken or something, it’s… What?”

Of course she would look at him as if he were a nutter speaking too many words at once, but he couldn’t help it, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop. Until he noticed Rose - what a perfect name that was, Rose, what a perfect woman she was, Rose - wasn’t staring at him, but at his wrist. He followed her eyes to the bracelet he wore. Not a bracelet, really, just a black hairband he had found two or three years ago on a bus ride to work. He didn’t know why he had kept it. No one kept hairbands they found on buses, no one thought it a good idea to put hairbands they found on buses around their wrists. But he had. Without a second-thought, he had just picked it up, snapped it around his wrist, and had never taken it off. Because it was hers. He knew that now. It was hers. Could it even be?

“If you look under the little metal bit,” she started softly, daring to shuffle close to him and take his hand - oh, Rose smelt nice, and her hands were soft, and had he already told her how perfect she was? “You’ll find a bit of blue. Blue wool. That hairband got stuck in one of my jumpers quite a while ago. John… I don’t suppose you’ve ever found a sketchbook, or a fountain pen, or…” “A grey scarf, a tiny purse with a cat, a star-shaped button?” he continued for her with a huge grin splattered over his face, hurrying towards his drawer to take it out of its cupboard. “A silver ring, a cinema ticket, a phone charger, a USB key?”

He felt like he was drunk A strange kind of inhibition that had him ranting on about all those things he had gathered over the years. Her things. He saw that in the way her smile grew at each listed item, her heard that in the way her breath quickened, he felt that in the way her body oozed joy and relief. Was that how it felt to find them? To find the one and only person to love, the one and only person to be loved by? Wonderful, scary, thrilling, awkward? So very awkward, it was. He looked at her, at Rose, sitting just a few feet away, and he frowned because she wasn’t supposed to be this far. She was supposed to be in his arms, close to him, he was supposed to hold her and kiss her and kiss her some more. He had just met her and he already loved her. Maybe he was drunk.

“I think we’re both drunk, then,” Rose giggled at the thought he had spoken aloud, reaching out with a hand she clasped around his. “It’s odd, isn’t it? To know you love someone before you even know who they are.” “Who told you I loved you, Rose Tyler?” he raised an eyebrow as he plopped back down on the couch beside her, unconsciously sliding a hand on the side of her neck. “You did. When you opened the door. And  a minute ago. And…”

“Care to tell me why you’re wearing my hoodie, Doctor?” she asked with a grin, tugging on the lace that hung from the hood.

He looked down at the light pink hoodie embroidered with a rainbow unicorn that was stretched across his chest. That hoodie was large enough to turn into a small dress when she was wearing it, but it fitted him like a glove. He liked this hoodie.

He shrugged, and swatted her hand away from the lace she was still pulling on.

“That’s what human couples do,” he stayed with a superior air of someone who knew what they were talking about. “They borrow each other’s clothes in the morning. It’s a tradition.”

“Is it?” she raised her eyebrows, a tongue-touched grin pulling at her lips.

“Oh yes, and you know it too. You steal my shirts in the morning all the time, Rose.”

“If you knew why I wear your shirt in the morning,” she giggled as she pushed herself up and poked him in the chest, straight through the unicorn’s eye.

“Same reason I’m wearing your clothes, I suppose.”

Full grin plastered over his face, he pulled the hood down over his forehead and buried his nose in the colar.

“It’s warm and comfy,” he smiled, voice muffled by the thick fabric. “And it smells like you, which is a nice bonus. At least I have something to remind me of you in the morning, when all you do is snore and drool all over my pillow.”

She only nodded her assent, reached for the rumpled shirt he had abandoned at the foot of the bed, shrugged it over her shoulders. She closed it with barely enough buttons to cover the silk of her bra, rolled the sleeves up her arms, and finally wiggled out of the bed to stand in front of him, fists planted on her hips.

“Do I look warm and comfy?” she asked, flipping a few strands of hair away from her shoulder with an elegant flick of her fingers. “Does it look like I’m drowning in your smell?”

She smirked at the way his mouth gaped slightly, bright brown eyes cataloguing every inch of bare skin from her feet, her legs, her thighs, to her chest, the slight swell of her breasts. She twirled on her feet to make sure he understood her behind was just as little clothed than her front, then went back to a pose she wanted to be just a bit appealing.

“Not really, no,” he answered as he hurried to pull the hood back, suddenly well aware of how ridiculous he must have looked. “You missed a few buttons, though, you should really… Button it up.”

“Why are you blushing, Doctor?” she teased, dropping back to her knees next to him to swipe her smiling lips over his jaw. “Is it the hoodie that keeps you warm? Or is it the shirt that does not keep me warm? Both, maybe?”

“Please, Rose, don’t make it worse,” he whined when she straddled his lap and ran her finger over the edges of the unicorn. “This is embarrassing enough as it is, thank you very much.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Doctor, this is actually really cute.”

“Cute,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest despite his urge to take the hoodie off. “Right, because the point is to look cute, isn’t it?”

“I love a bit of cute every now and then, Doctor, you know. When you’re being cute, that’s when I feel I love you the most. I just get these urges to hug you to death and all I want is to cuddle with you for the rest of eternity.”

“I knew wearing this thing was a bad idea.”

“You forgot rude and pretentious,” she smiled against his sternum, giving his skin a quick bite in retaliation.

He was almost disappointed when she unrolled her arms from around his waist and pushed herself away from him. He had found out early, very early, after their very first hug, that he rather liked it when Rose Tyler invaded his personal space. More than that, he had found out he loathed the cold she left behind when she stepped away. But he wasn’t disappointed, because she only snuggled closer to his side and nestled her head on his shoulder.

She picked up one of his hand that was splayed over her thigh and trailed her fingertips down his fingers, then along the thin lines etched into his palm.

“I meant your hands,” she said softly, drawing random patterns over his skin. “They’re really soft. The previous ones were all big and calloused, but these… They’re delicate.”

“Because these were made for you,” he told her without second-guessing his words - if he could be perfectly honest with anyone, it would be Rose. “This whole body was made for you. My hands are soft, because I wanted to touch you with them. I wanted to make sure everywhere my hands touched you, it wouldn’t feel unpleasant.”

“Hm, so very thoughtful of you, my Doctor,” she hummed, a fond smile painted on her face. “I do love it when you touch me with those hands.”

“And I love touching you with those hands. I can feel your heartbeat, I can feel your warmth, and how soft your own skin is. Everywhere I touch, I can feel your muscles work and your blood flow through your veins. I can feel just how alive you are. But you know what I love to feel the most?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, Doctor.”

He chuckled lightly with a nod, and brought one of his hand to cradle her cheek while his other fingers threaded between hers on his lap. He bent towards hers, slowly, brushed his thumb under her eye, tilted his head to the right, barely. Then he closed the distance and pressed his lips against hers, into the same kiss they had shared hundreds and hundreds of times.

“There,” he whispered, joining their foreheads when the kiss broke, unwilling to step out of the confines of their shared intimacy. “Felt all of it.”

“Felt what, Doctor?” she asked under her breath as her own hand found an anchor on his shoulder.

“Your trust, in that muscular tension when you close your eyes. Your excitement, in that heat that floods from you skin. Your happiness, in that tiny tremor when your lips can’t decide of they should smile or kiss me back. That’s what I love to feel the most. To feel that you love me.”

Her heart stuttered at those words, and her stomach swooped when she thought she saw a shine in his eyes that wasn’t there before. She turned her head in that soft palm still holding her cheek and brushed her lips against the inside of his wrist.

“You don’t need to kiss me to feel that, right?” she murmured, a shiver coursing down her spine when his other hand snaked around her neck. “You know I love you, kissing or not.”

“Of course I do,” he grinned, though he still felt compelled to steal another quick peck to her plump lips. “I just love kissing you, too. And while your hands are softer than mine, they can’t feel that kind of things. They can’t feel I love you, so I have to find other ways to prove it to you, and that includes kissing.”

“You know you don’t need to prove it, Doctor.”

“Oh, but I do. Told you, this whole body was made to show you how much I love you. Would you like a demonstration?”

“I think I would, yes.”

She squealed above his laugh when he wrapped his arms around her waist and pushed her down on the sofa to cover her body with his.

A liquid shiver rolled down his spine at the thought, and he hurried to take out his list of current exhibitions he needed to go to.

“Nope to Nighthorses 66, then,” he mumbled under his breath, crossing the name of the exhibition with the pencil he always kept in his pocket. “Next is… S.C.M. Just hope this doesn’t stand for super creepy monsters."

He shoved his quickly shortening list back into his pocket and headed for the nearest underground station. It was already quite late in the afternoon, and he knew he should call it a day, head back home and get a full night of sleep if he didn’t want to doze off over his desk the morning later. But he also knew the disappointment and frustration of not making any progress, the longing he felt to finally find her growing into some kind of unhealthy obsession only predicted long hours spent tossing and turning in his sheets without finding Morpheus’ comforting embrace.

He took a quick look at his watch, ignoring the soulmark on his arm as if it’d just been a cheap tattoo he would forever regret, and made his decision. He hopped out of the train a few stations later, didn’t look twice at the large mural on the wall he had learnt a few years back had been painted by a foreign young artist, and made his way up the stairs. He was getting tired to try and see her where she wasn’t. A sticker on lamp post with a cartoonish drawing. Crass tags in back alleys, elaborated frescos on iron curtains. Street traders who sold ridiculously expensive prints of artworks stolen on the Internet. Everywhere he looked, he was tempted to believe it was her, and every time, he was a tad more disillusioned when he found out it wasn’t.

His worn chucks squished on the wet pavement as he made his way to one of his favorite places. It was a cramped bookshop in the corner of an ever-deserted street he had discovered the first time he had moved in this part of the city, rather by accident than real intention, and he came back to it every week, some weeks every day. It wasn’t as much the books as the owner that always brought his steps back to that small shop that smelled of yellowed paper and dust. Rose, was her name. A young woman with honey-eyes and wheat-hair, full lips and round nose. He knew she was just his friend, but sometimes, he wished his soulmark could be a small pile of books, or a meaningful quote from her favorite author - not that odd-shaped moon that belonged in a Van Gogh painting. His soulmate was an artist, not a bookworm. Not the woman he had dreamt of so often he believed he must have broken a hundred rules and, though unwillingly, cheated on his real soulmate on several occasions. Not Rose. Never Rose.

The small bell chimed when he pushed the ancient door open and the sound of his steps died on the heavy carpet. She was nowhere in sight - probably in the cellar she called a storage room, or in the broom cupboard she called an office. She would eventually pop out, like she usually did whenever the bell rang. His feet took him to the only alley he was interested in, and he picked up an old encyclopedia that had lost a bit of its varnish. He had always wanted to buy this book, but it almost was a relic, and not only did it look like it, it was also worth it. He sifted through random pages, smiling at the centuries-old mathematical formulas and theorems that had long been replaced by more precise, and especially more valid ones.

“You should buy it before it’s gone.”

He hurried to slide the heavy book back in its space at the sound of her smiling voice and twirled on his feet to greet her with a smile of his own.

“Rose, hi, how…” he started before his mouth gaped open and his voice died in his throat.

He first noticed the dark blue apron she was wearing over her eternal oversized jumper. Then he spotted the pencil she had stuck behind an ear. And he finally understood the multicoloured stains dotting and streaking the apron were paint. That wasn’t right. Rose loved books. She was a bookseller. Not an artist. He would know if she were, after so much time spent sharing coffees and pointless conversations. So much time spent wishing she could be the one.

“Fine, if your question was how are you,” she giggled, wiping her hands on her apron so she could give his shoulder a friendly slap without harming his pinstriped jacket. “How are you?”

“I, uh, yeah, good, I suppose,” he nodded - he found his voice again when he managed to ame his heart hammering against his ribs. “What are you doing with all that equipment?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, John?” she taunted as she motioned for him to follow her through the maze of crammed corridors. “I was about to close, I didn’t think anyone would come so I just started working on a little something. D’you wanna sneak a peek?”

“You never told me you liked painting,” he said, almost reproachful.

“You never asked.”

She led him to the door that was plastered with a large sticker that read storage, offered him a shy smile and pushed the door open with a finger.

He couldn’t move. Instead of a dark, small room filled to the brim with rows of old books, he saw a bright, large space void of anything. Anything but paintings, hanging on the walls, haphazardly propped up against the walls. Colours bursting out of the canvas like fireworks, fiery landscapes and smooth still-lives, abstract shapes that made him feel so many things at once his heart flew to his throat, meticulous portraits of people she probably knew given the depth and the familiariaty that oozed from the faces. She was painter. A very talented painter. An artist. Rose was an artist.

“I wanted to show you the one I’m working on,” she said as she strutted towards her easel that was directed towards the window, unaware he was staring a her as if she’d just turned into one of the monsters he’d seen at the weird exhibition. “I think… You’re the expert, maybe you can tell me if I did it right?”

He could only nod even though he barely heard her words and watched, speechless and on the verge of collapsing under the weight of the unexpected revelation. Rose was an artist. She turned her easel towards him, and what he saw made his stomach twist into tight and uncomfortable knots.

“That’s a golden spiral,” he said, running a feverish hand through his spikes of hair. “Logarithmic spiral, it’s… Maths.”

“Yeah, I know,” she smiled, a quivering smile that lacked its usual enthusiasm. “Does it look… Dunno, accurate?”

“Accurate isn’t the first word that came to my mind,” he said softly, taking a few steps towards the painting to let his fingers hover over the snake of yellow and soft orange. “This looks beautiful, Rose.  Why did you paint this?”

“‘Cause I found out…’ she started, sheepishly rocking on the ball of her feet. “What my soulmark is. I didn’t want to know, because I’ve always thought I would meet my soulmate whether I knew or not. But then… I mean, you came along and you made it really hard to resist the temptation.”

“What’s your soulmark, Rose? Please, show me.”

He held his breath as she slowly rolled her sleeve up her arm, stared at her pale skin covered with lines and lines of tiny numbers from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. He wanted to scream his joy, cry his relief, he wanted to hug her and kiss her and let his whole body and soul finally love her. But he simply blinked and swallowed it all down. She had never told him about her mark. She had never wanted him to know, and she probably had a hundred good reasons not to tell him.

“That’s the Fibonacci sequence,” he told her, unconsciously tugging on his own sleeve to make sure she wouldn’t see his mark. “It’s… My favorite sequence, actually.”

“I know,” she shrugged with an embarrassed twist of her lips. “I mean, I figured. You’ve bought several books about that sequence from me, you know. Doctor Smith, clever scientist and mathematician and all.”

He noticed the dejection in her voice, the way she gently kicked the foot of her easel and lowered her eyes to the carpet. He was hurt, deep and violent, that she didn’t seem to want any of what he had to offer, but that didn’t make him any less indifferent to her own pain. He slipped a finger under her chin to catch her eyes and give her a gentle look she didn’t want.

“Talk to me, Rose,” he said softly, fully cupping her cheek when she started to bow her head again. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I know you’ve got a bit of Starry Night on your arm,” she answered with a sharp nibble on her lip. “I know that… You would have found out I like painting, sooner or later.”

“Why wait until now, then?” he asked, befuddled by the tears that started to roll down her cheeks. “Rose, I don’t understand, what’s wrong?”

“Look at me, John,” she sighed, swatting his hand away from her face. “Look at me and tell me I’m the soulmate you’ve always wanted. Tell me I was made for you. Tell me you can ever love me. I don’t want you to think I’m the one is all. There has to be someone else for you, John.”

They matched. He didn’t understand why she refused to see it, refused to believe it, refused to accept she could be his soulmate. They matched. That’s all he understood. Her mark was a mathematical sequence. His mark was actually borrowed from a Van Gogh painting. They matched. And he had fallen for that woman so long ago, To know he had already learnt everything he loved about her, to know she was the one. That left no room for tears or unhappiness.

Despite her protests, he cupped bot her cheeks again and hurried to press a soft, lingering on her lips before she could draw back. Rose was an artist. Rose was the one.

“You’re the one I’ve always wanted,” he whispered, catching her lips between his again to steal her answer. “You were made for me, like I was made for you.”

“John…” she tried to complain, though she was slowly melting into his arms, little by little, a little more each time his hot breath caressed her chin and his lips danced against her own. “I’m not…”

“There’s no one else for me. You, just you. God, why did you have to wait so long, Rose, we’ve lost so much time. All that time spent looking for you when I had already found you. All that time spent pretending I didn’t love you when I could have shown you how much I do. “

“You do?” she breathed out, pulling away to see that truth in his eyes.

He read the email he had written again, looked at the vial again. Maybe she had already forgotten about the incident. And if she hadn’t, well, that could be a good apology gift. He had planned for this vial to mean something else, but desperate times call for desperate measures, he supposed. He wasn’t desperate, per se, but but he couldn’t deny he would love to spend more quality time with her, no board pens and death threats involved.

He looked at his vial one last time and hit the key. Come what may.

Would you like to eat me at the canteen in half an hour? I have something nice to give you and I’m quite sure you’ll like it. Dr Smith

She grinned at the message that popped open on her screen and stifled a snort.  After what had happened two days before, she was sure he must have spent at least an hour writing this and an hour more pondering whether he should send it at all. She knew him so well, it almost scared her. But she also knew herself, and she knew there was no way she could let that opportunity to tease him fly by. How he had missed the mistake after reading the sentence a hundred times, she didn’t know. But he had missed it.

That’s a bold offer from someone who owes me an apology. But okay, we can try to hide behind your plant, second row on the left. Hope you won’t be as loud as you were on Wednesday, though. See you there. Dr Tyler

He blinked as he read her answer. Definitely not what he had expected. He had ranked no answer in his list of possibilities first. Sod off, second. No, third. A sexually connoted joke about a single missing word, now, that had come last. Hadn’t come at all, if he was honest with himself.

He tried to rub his blush from his cheeks and tried to think of an answer. He could shrug it off as a ridiculous mistake, or he could taunt her about her lack of inventiveness. Or he could keep the joke going - give her something she wouldn’t expect either. He knew it wasn’t a good idea, because he was enjoying it too much, and not in the proper way. He had this image of Doctor Tyler floating around his thoughts, and he knew indulging in dirty jokes of the kind wouldn’t do wonders to his infatuation. Still, maybe that was an open door he could walk through.

Maybe she was trying to seduce him. After all, she did seem to fixate a lot on his attributes. He could only hope she wasn’t interested in said attributes alone and that he had something to do with it - if she was interested at all, that might just have been hazardous interpretation on his side.

He grinned at his screen and typed an answer. If she was trying to seduce him with her jokes, no reason why he couldn’t do the same. If it was just a silly game she liked, it could not hurt much more than feelings he wasn’t sure he even felt. If it meant more to her, well, playing along could make her understand he was interested, too.

If I get too loud, science room B47 is soundproof. And I’m the only one to have the keys. Dr Smith

This time, she couldn’t help the laugh that rose in her throat. She couldn’t help the blush that rose on her cheeks either. She realized she didn’t know him as well as she had first believed. He could be bold. Bold and funny. She knew she liked him - when he wasn’t making her life a living Hell - but this… This was a side of him she had never really seen before. She liked it. Really liked it. She wondered if he had meant something more than a simple taunt, sending this message. It was unusual, coming from him. The ever serious Doctor she had rarely seen laugh or smile - probably because when they met it was to jump at each other’s throats and scream, most of the times. She had always thought he was much too different from her to consider hanging out with him, but maybe she had been wrong. Maybe she could actually enjoy his company.

She typed her answer, sent it, and turned off her computer.

Good to know. Maybe the science department does have a few perks. See you. Dr Tyler

He smirked at the message, turned off his computer and snatched his lunch box in his bag before he hurried to the canteen. He didn’t know if he could consider this impromptu meeting a date, but it sure felt like it to him. Share a lunch with his favorite Doctor. He even had a gift. Oh, he couldn’t wait to see her face when he’d tell her what is was. The face she’d make would be his answer. He hoped. Hoped she would smile and thank him and maybe take his hand and kiss his cheek. He could only hope.

He spotted her immediately behind the large plant, on the small table meant for two, and he realized she had really known about this table all along. He was horrified that she had probably seen him spy on her on several occasions, but he simply couldn’t point it out, lest he’d spontaneously combust. Better to play it casual. Casual was good.

“Nice spot, isn’t it?” he beamed at her as he dropped his lunch box on the table and plopped down on the plastic chair.

“Doctor Smith,” she greeted around a chip she was nibbling. “Nice spot indeed, I wondered what was so good about it you spent half a lifetime behind that plant. D’you mind if I finish my chicken before I eat you?”

His fork bounced on the tiled floor, and he was quite sure his face reappeared from under the table redder than it had ever been. If she dared make such comments face to face, not hidden behind a computer screen, he doubted his composure would survive. He doubted he would survive.

“I, huh, I mean, please, do,” he stuttered, flipping the lead of his box open with shaky hands. “That’s not the reason why I asked you…”

“Out?” she grinned at his blush and the way he stabbed a tomato. “Well, I say out… I just had to cross two corridors. Inside.”

“I asked you for lunch,” he hurried to correct, stuffing a salad leaf into his mouth. “That’s not the kind of place I would take a woman on a date, Doctor Tyler.”

“Oh, and where would you take her, then?”

“Dunno. B47?”

He instantly regretted the squeak - because it most definitely didn’t sound like a letter and two numbers - that fell from his lips and looked down at the content of his box, suddenly fascinated by the shape of a piece of cheese.

“Of course, where was my head,” she laughed, gently kicking his shin under the table. “So, you mentioned a gift?”

“Hm, quite right.” he nodded, glad she was the one to take the conversation to safer territories - if there ever was a safe territory with that woman at all.

He reached into his pocket and took out his precious vial, carefully putting it down next to her plate. She picked it up, examined the brownish liquid with a suspicious eye.

“Go on, open it,” he urged between bites.

“Is that another one of your horrible jokes?” she couldn’t help asking, not really reassured by its colour. “It’s not diluted mice crap or fermented piss?”

“You have an awfully vulgar vocab for someone of your stature, Doctor Tyler,” he grinned, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin - if she did want to kiss him on the cheek, he wanted to be sure she wouldn’t hesitate because of a bit of salad or a drip of vinegar. “But no, I promise it isn’t. Just smell it, will you?”

“If I puke, I swear I’m doing it in your lunchbox,” she warned, flicking the lid open with her thumb.

She brought the vial to her nose, not really knowing what to do with the grin plastered all  over his daft face, and she took a sniff. Her eyes widened at the smell of it, and his grin bloomed into a full-blown beam.

“Damn, that smells nice,” she acknowledged, running a finger on the opening to gather the fragrance on her fingertip. “Where did you get that?”

“Homemade perfume,” he announced proudly - though she would have expected a smugness way beyond the limits of common decency, he looked merely pleased, which she found rather impressive and maybe just a bit charming. “I noticed how you liked yours, so I made some research and… Tada!”

“What’s in this?” she asked, taking another long inhale of the sweet smell.

“Lilac, blueberries and, sorry to say, roses. Took me over two months to find the perfect balance between the three and find out how long I needed to centrifuge the ingredients to get the adequate fragrance potency. Do you like it, then?”

“I do, I really do, this is amazing, John. But why? I mean, I really appreciate the gesture, I’m just wondering why you’d go the trouble at all.”

“I’m… Good with dates?”

“Dates, as in…?”

“As in today is the twenty-third of March, and it’s been precisely five years since we started working together. That was my first day in this university, and you were the only one who bothered to show me around. You helped me settle in, you answered all my questions, and you even said…”

“Better to have a hot science geek as a neighbour than a decaying bald dinosaur,” she finished for him with a smile. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“And I never really thanked you for your help, so I thought… You know, small gift. It’s not much, and I think I’ll need a thousand bottles more of this to properly make up for everything I put you through, but it’s a start isn’t it?”

She chuckled at his embarrassed shrug, rose from her chair and her hand landed in a friendly hold on the side of his neck.

“Thank you”, she said softly after she pressed a quick kiss much too close to his mouth.

“Well, thank you.”