Disclaimer: "Doctor Who" is the property of the BBC, and no infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This short tale was in part inspired by Sonic Jules, who suggested a "Side Effects" series to me. Would Rose really walk away unscathed from each perilous adventure? We think not!
Rose sipped her tea slowly. It felt very good to sit down, to hold the warm cup in her hands and take a few minutes to unwind. It seemed rare that she and the Doctor found the time to truly relax. Usually they dashed from one escapade to the next with barely a moment to catch their breaths. Of course he'd boasted that he had some sort of respiratory bypass system that let him get by with little or no air for extended periods of time, so he probably didn't need more than a second to recharge after a particularly harrowing flight. But she was human, and much as she wanted to keep up with the boundless energy of the Time Lord, on rare occasions she got tired.
This was one of those occasions. She'd slept for nine or ten hours after they'd returned from Krop Tor, but she still felt deeply fatigued. There was a dull ache at the base of her neck, too. She rubbed at it then took another sip of tea.
The Doctor was buzzing about the console, doing something involving recalibrating the temporal-spatial whatsits. Rose couldn't really remember what he'd told her. His constant motion was making her a bit dizzy, so she looked back down at her tea.
He paused to snatch up his own cup, draining the contents with a satisfied smack of his lips.
"Outstanding tea, Rose," he complimented. "Is there any more?"
"I can make another pot," she replied, looking up at his grinning, eager expression.
"Yep, that'd be great! Nothing like a good, strong cuppa to get the old synapses firing in tip-top form." He held out his cup.
Rose stood, surprised by the little niggle of pain accompanying this motion. Her lower back felt sore, and she tried to recall just which muscles she'd abused recently. She extended her hand for his cup.
He glanced down for a moment, then he caught her wrist gently. "Your hands are shaking," he told her. He sounded mildly surprised.
She looked at her hand to see that it trembled slightly. "Must've made the tea stronger than I planned—too much caffeine, yeah?"
"I've seen you down a tall triple mocha with three shots of espresso, and it didn't make you shake."
She shrugged. "I'm still a little tired, I s'pose."
His brow furrowed. "I thought you slept for ten hours. Didn't you sleep well?"
"Yeah, fine."
He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, and he frowned. "You feel warm, Rose." He took a step toward her so that he could rest his palm against her forehead. "You're running a low-grade fever…about 38.4. You feel sick?"
She shook her head. "No, just a bit tired. 'S been a long couple a' days."
He dropped his hand. "That it has."
"Yeah. So I'll jus' go an' make that tea for you."
"No, Rose, you don't need to do that. Why don't you go and lie down for a while."
The idea was really quite appealing, but she hated to appear weak. She hesitated.
"Or would you like me to take you to your mum's?" he asked.
"My mum's?" she repeated, surprised by the suggestion. "You never wanna go there!"
"Well, if that's where you want to go, then that's where I'll take you."
"Why would I wanna go there?"
"If you're feeling ill, I thought you'd want your mum to take care of you. Isn't that what humans like?"
Rose shook her head. "Not this one. Mum's the worst fusser ever. 'S a wonder I ever got well when she was takin' care of me."
He frowned in concern. "Were you sick a lot?"
"No, no more than most other kids—y'know, just colds and flu a couple a' times. Usual stuff. But the way she fussed over me." Rose rolled her eyes. "I hate that. A few times I didn't even tell her I was sick 'cause I didn't want her hoverin' over me, makin' a big deal over it."
"Your mum bothering someone within an inch of her life. Imagine that!"
"Oi! She means well, but I just don't like havin' anyone bother over me."
He regarded her with a critical eye for just a second then gestured toward the corridor. "You go and have a kip. I'll pop in and see if you need anything in a little while."
She gave her head another shake. "I'm all right. I don't want you fussin' over me, either."
"Oh, believe me Rose, I don't fuss. I don't play nursemaid, either—"
"Only to her," she interjected with a wry little grin as she patted the console.
"I'd hardly call that nursemaiding! She requires careful, precise maintenance and engineering—"
"Right. An' you like givin' it to her."
"She's a complex, delicate entity."
"Yeah," Rose agreed, "she is." She yawned.
He pointed at the corridor again. "Kip."
"On it." She shuffled down the ramp and made her way to her room.
The Doctor watched her go. Did her steps seem a bit sluggish? She'd been undeniably warm, even for a human. Still, she might merely be run down. Sometimes he neglected to remember that the human constitution wasn't quite as hearty as his.
Oh, Rose was a trooper; she rarely complained, she usually mustered considerable energy, and she demonstrated a fortitude that he really did admire. He wondered for just a moment if she'd even admit it to him if she were feeling sick.
But she wasn't stupid. If something were really wrong, she'd tell him. Besides, the chances of her contracting an illness were slim at best. The environment within the confines of the ship was pure and immediately cleansed itself of any foreign matter. Whenever anyone stepped inside, the TARDIS gave him or her the equivalent of a thorough decontamination shower, similar to the cleansing spray on New Earth but without the liquid or noise.
He'd had companions enter the ship with injuries, but never had anyone become ill from a viral infection. Indeed, even when there had been a broken bone or a serious wound, the environmental cleansing had begun clearing up bacterial infection before he'd even gotten the patient to the med bay.
He thought back on those courageous young people who'd accompanied him on his many adventures. A young Scotsman, two teachers, his granddaughter, an intrepid reporter, and the woman others had called a savage; the brilliant yet gentle Trakenite, the headstrong Alzarian genius, a brash yet fearless Australian who butted heads with a Trion refugee, a gutsy American girl, a teenager with a fondness for Nitro 9, a Beatnik, a professor who wasn't really a professor…
He wondered for a moment if he'd cared for them properly. His hearts still ached when he thought of Adric, but the boy had bravely chosen his own destiny. Still, it might have been prevented, and he might have been more sympathetic to the girls in the aftermath. And then on the heels of that there'd been Tegan's experience with the Mara. Surely that had left emotional scars, but he hadn't really thought to check, just assumed she was all right like he always did.
Because what he'd told Rose was true: The Doctor didn't play nursemaid. He didn't fuss over his friends. If they were injured physically, he'd treat them. But solicitous care was not in his nature. Fix the problem and move on; that had always been his unspoken credo.
Sometimes there were little things that were best ignored anyway. Tegan and Ace, for example, had occasionally been affected by those bothersome female cycles that left them irritable and rather uncomfortable for several days. Perhaps that was Rose's issue, too. He tried to make a point of ignoring such things whenever possible, but now he wished momentarily that he could remember just when he'd last noticed that faint hint of iron infusing her natural human scent.
Still, that wouldn't cause a low-grade fever. He recalled that there was a point in the human female's cycle when her body temperature would increase incrementally, but not by a full degree. Besides, that wouldn't leave Rose tired.
Simple exhaustion, though, could explain her vague symptoms. Rest was the best thing for her. He felt certain of it. Decision made, the Doctor returned his full attention to the console and the bare wires beckoning for his tender ministrations.
To be continued…