"Wouldn't be the first time," she told him, though there was a hint of teasing in her voice. Just a hint, that old Rose just under the surface of the woman she'd become. The bitter woman who was so angry with him. But she'd come a long way. It was funny. He probably thought this place, this Apocalypse, had torn her apart. It had done the exact opposite. She'd grown up, grown away from his Rose, the woman he remembered. She mattered now, in her own right. First in her own dimension, as Pete's daughter and a valued member of Torchwood, and now here.
"I have been," she admitted. "There's so many people here, and most of them are amazing. Anna, oh, you'd love her. She's an angel. An actual angel, of the winged Heavenly daughter of God variety. She loves humans the way you do." She looked down the road to make sure the cab wasn't nearby yet. She was pretty sure she wouldn't be able to say half of what she wanted to in front of a poor, unsuspecting cab driver. She should've just called a friend of hers, but she didn't want any of them to see her like this. Confused and torn up over a bloody man. She, who came off as so tough and independent half the time, and now this? No. It wouldn't work.
"I also made friends with a demon, actually. A reformed one, I suppose, but there you have it. And Ron Weasley and his wife, Stephanie Brown. Felicia Hardy, she's kind of amazing. Oh, and the Solos. Anakin seems the nicest, but it's hard to judge, really." Names he might know. And she waited. Because she had just told him that people who should be fictional existed in real life. If he wasn't broken yet, telling him about a little show called Doctor Who could do him in for good. Or fascinate him. It was hard to tell.