It’s fic tennis, back again, in honor of the lovely Ania’s birthday next week! At Ania’s request, the prompt we’re working off of is this manip by the also lovely Reminii!
For those of you that don’t remember fic tennis (which apparently started with round one, two years ago tomorrow) or are new here, Allison and I volley a story back and forth 500(…ish) words at a time. To skip out on that, savior ‘fic tennis.’
Happy birthday, Ania!
There is a very yellow mustard stain on the lapel of Rose’s very expensive business suit and it is very distracting.
She’ll admit, not even under duress, just regular, ol’ ask-and-answer admitting, that it’s not very hard to distract her right now, stuck here in this meeting like she is, but she’d prefer it not be a condiment-based distraction.
Some spaceships out the boardroom window, the senior director of marketing spontaneously growing a third eye — or, wait, even better, his terrible coffee breath suddenly morphing into a tiny, sentient cloud and attacking the finance department, that’d be ideal.
As it is, she’s stuck inkblot-analyzing the mustard stain (it looks like a puppy wearing a newsboy cap, from this angle) and feeling grateful that this isn’t her real life, at regular intervals.
Not that this was ever in the cards for Rose Tyler — a time-traveling alien or no, she was never going to grace marble hallways, her high heels clacking like a metronome as she made walk-and-talk decisions with coworkers who would roll up their windows driving through the Powell Estate.
It is, however, thanks to that time-traveling alien that she’s here right now.