#but i just could not get over the supervisor x worker hangup

[megabadbunny]

some kind of AU where Rose dates her superior, The Doctor. Could be student,teacher or worker,boss or whatever you want

Hey there nonny!!! I’m sure your interest in my fill for this prompt died a long time ago and its corpse is now gently crumbling away to dust, for which I deeply apologize. The thing is, while I totally understand why folks like AUs, they’re not my thing (I tend to be a stickler for canon or canon-divergent stuff, with the exception of fem!versions of the Doctor), and after a series of former jobs with male supervisors who were, well, kinda dickbags a lot of the time, I’ll admit I had a hard time getting over that and struggled with this prompt quite a bit. (Seriously, I’ve been working on a response to this for two and a half years now!) However, because I do have stuff written, and it seems a shame for it to just languish away in my WIPs folder untouched by the light of day, Imma go ahead and post what little I did manage to get written over the last 28 months. And here’s the dilly: if someone else sees it and feels a mighty need, I’d be more than happy to send them my notes or do a bit of collab with them if they’d like to pick up the trail from here!

pygmalion’s revenge

Rose Tyler is, in no particularorder, 24 years old, British, white, female, a stage actress, a former gymnastand current runner, a connoisseur of chocolates and films starring Idris Elba andColin Firth, and, despite being a dreadful flirt, just a tad bit dense when itcomes to picking up on signs of a certain nature.

The epiphany smacks her like a handto the face, dawning on her sometime in a grey morning in her tiny London flat.Evidence of a job hunt is spread over her dinged old kitchen table, a smallmountain of newspapers and printouts with her laptop sitting pretty andvictorious at the peak, all of them hiding pockmarks and coffee-rings andsomething that looks suspiciously like a cigarette burn which Shareen swears upand down that she knows nothing about. Rose stares at it all while hersleep-lagged brain tries to decide whether her mouth wants tea or coffee. (Teais the obvious answer, and the likely victor, but sometimes a mug of foul-tastingjet fuel is just what she needs to get through the morning. “Morning person”does not number among the many things that Rose Tyler is.) And while her eyesstare and her eyelids droop and her brain pontificates, even though it’s gotnothing to do with anything, somewhere in the back room of her subconscioussome part of her just realizes.

The Doctor is totally, completelyarse-over-heels in love with her.

“Jesus, Jack,” she asks, withoutpreamble, the moment her flatmate steps into the kitchen, “Am I an idiot?”

Jack’s resounding laughter letsher know that yes, in this particular case, “idiot” ranks very high on the listof things that Rose Tyler is.

***

Rose firstmet the Doctor when she was 19 years old, neither a gymnast nor a runner norsomeone with even her A-levels, working a dead-end job at Henrik’s. She hadnabbed the position in an attempt to chip away at theseveral-thousand-pound-debt incurred by a year of irresponsible living with agood-for-nothing boyfriend. (Thanks, Jimmy.) And the day she met the Doctor, shehad just clocked out at the end of her shift and stepped into the ancient lift,so absorbed in her fashion magazine with some silly name (Belle or Metropolitanor Splendor or some such rot) that she didn’t even look up when the doorsopened and someone joined her.

She frowned.There it was again.

This time thetext was splashed in white across a model’s bright blue jumper—“Bad Wolf.”Those words kept popping up everywhere Rose looked. She saw them spray-paintedon bins, printed on takeaway menus, in big black letters outside stuffy-lookingoffice buildings, on the bottoms of pink and yellow nail polish sets. Thephrase had popped up everywhere seemingly overnight. What was this obsessionwith Bad Wolf, and more importantly, whydid no one else seem to notice it?

“I wouldn’tbuy that one,” a chipper voice informed her from somewhere to her left. “Thecolor is nice, but the lanolin acids present in such a wool-heavy blend arelikely to cause some unpleasant contact dermatitis.”

Rose openedher mouth to politely tell this gent and his posh Estuary accent to mind theirown business, but fortunately, her eyes moved faster than her lips; she foundherself staring at a bloke who, despite being so thin that a hard look mightknock him over, was pretty enough to make her heart trip on itself. Academictypes didn’t usually do it for her (there was something about their snootyvoices and prim manners and patronizing attitudes that grated on her nerves,somehow). But, looking this fellow up and down as subtly as she was able, eyescataloging everything from his spectacles to his wild hair to his freckles tothe ever-so-slightly tatty brown pinstripe suit—paired with Chucks, no less,who wears Chucks with a pinstripe suit?—Rose felt that perhaps she could makean exception this time.

“Thanks,professor. I’ll keep it in mind,” she teased as the lift lurched and lumbered upward.

“What makesyou say I’m a professor?” he asked, mouth twitching in amusement.

Sheshrugged. “S’just a joke,” she replied, but halfway through her sentence, itoccurred to her that the fellow was looking at her in a very specific way, andthat gave her pause. He wasn’t leering at her like the lads on the sidewalk, orsneering at her like gentlemen in suits were oft wont to do. Instead he waswatching her almost like—

Like she wasonto something.

Rose’s eyestracked him over. “I guess the specs look sort of professor-ish,” she offered.“Wearing a suit, too, brown and not too fancy. Nothing wrong with it, but youwouldn’t catch it at Harrods. And you’ve got a bunch of student papers stickingout of your briefcase,” she said, pointing at the worn leather case danglingfrom one hand.

“What makesyou say they’re from students?” he asked, a smile hiding in the corners of hiseyes.

She was definitely onto something.

“Well,they’ve got grades on them, don’t they?” Rose asked. “Gotta be students.”

His facesplit in a wide grin. “That makes sense. Well done.”

“Thanks,”Rose laughed, and she was only being a little sarcastic. “Did I pass the test,then?”

“With flyingcolors.”

Both of themsmiled at each other, and Rose felt just the tiniest twinge of regret when thelift arrived at its destination. The doors slid open, the bell chimed out aloud announcement, and neither Rose nor the professor moved away.

“Well,” theprofessor said, fidgeting a bit in his plimsolls. He tilted his head toward theexit. “Got to run. See you around, maybe?”

Not if I see you first is what Rose thought.

“Sure,” iswhat she said.

With acheeky grin, the professor stepped out of the lift and walked away. He didn’t seemto notice the paper that fluttered in his wake, drifting out of his case andfloating lazily, featherlike, to the floor.

“Wait,” Rosestarted, scooping the paper up in her hand, but the doors were closing and theprofessor didn’t turn back. Rose quickly gave the paper a once-over (it couldbe rubbish, but what if it was a student’s assignment, what if the professorhadn’t graded it yet, what if that poor sod ended up with a 0 through no faultof their own?) and was surprised by the words she found at the top.

OPEN CASTING CALL

And a littlebelow that:

For George Bernard Shaw’s

PYGMALION

At the Blue Box Theatre

Rosefrowned. Open casting? She wasn’tsure what that meant, exactly, but it was obviously something to do with aplay. Had to be a play if it was in a theatre. Right? Was it like auditions?(And if it was like auditions, why didn’t it just say that?)

The liftdoors opened at her destination and Rose balled the paper up in her hands,compressing it neatly into its own little cragged-edged world. She tossed it inthe rubbish bin without a second thought.

…but she didhave an individual thought, on its own, not two seconds later, which encouragedher to pick the paper right back up.

(No harm inchecking it out, right?)

***

A quick few minutes of Googlingshow her everything she needs to know. Jack is happy to supplement the rest.

“A bit familiar, isn’t it?” heteases, looking over her shoulder while she types. Normally she would beinclined to tell him that that’s a load of bunk, and then outline preciselyjust how much bunk that is, but the parallels seem pretty undeniable.

“Pyggies was years ago,” Rosesays in a protest that they both know is feeble. “This doesn’t mean—”

“Rose,” Jack interrupts, gently.“It means.”

Rose worries her lip while shescrolls down the screen. Jack’s right. Of course he is. But that doesn’t makethings any easier. It doesn’t make hurt feelings unhurt or apologies magicallysaid.

But.

“He’s trying,” Jack says.

“What, you his agent, now? Mostpeople get paid for a job like that.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Look, Iknow he’s an idiot. Everyone knows. Hell, even he knows. But you also know he’smore than that. And even if it’s a stupid gesture…at least it’s a gesture.”

Rose stares at the screen somemore. Open CastingCall, it says. Born Yesterday, it says. Seeking ExceptionallyTalented Woman (Character Experience Preferred), it says.

“Those American accents are goingto be dreadful,” Rose says.

***

They’ll tellyou that you should never go into an audition unprepared, but Rose didn’t knowthat yet. Besides, she never really cared much about what They tell you.

(Also, shestill wasn’t entirely sure she was going to audition at all. Or so she toldherself, standing in front of the Blue Box Theatre with a crumpled flier in herhand. Maybe she had only shown up to see what the thing was all about.Certainly she had not shown up hoping to get cast, definitely she wasn’t hopingto see the intriguing professor-bloke again.)

“The queuestarts round the back,” a Scottish voice popped up, and Rose turned to see ayoung redheaded woman leaning against the blue brick wall. Her hair fell aroundher face in curtains, her legs were impossibly long, and the casual way shedragged smoke out of her cigarette made Rose’s fingers itch.

“Sorry?”

“The queue,”the girl repeated, as if repetition would encourage understanding. “It’s roundthe back.” She gestured with the cigarette, trailing ash in its wake. “Thatway.”

***

And that’s it, folks. If you’re interesting in picking it up, let me know and I’ll send you my notes!