The Doctor was firmly aware that everyone got ill at various times in their life; it was a natural thing. The severity of the illness though, now that part mattered. He watched her sleeping fitfully on the bed,her bed, and swallowed. She was mumbling in her sleep and he was too afraid to move closer and figure out her words. He didn't want to know, not really.
He felt out of place in Rose's personal space in her room. He was sat in a chair in the corner and kept wringing his hands because he didn't know what else to do with them. Occasionally, he would get up and move across the room to dab at her forehead gently with a cool cloth, whose water he'd replace once he had finished. It was small, but it was really the only thing he could do. The Doctor tried not to remember when he had done this at home before, before everything.
He swallowed and shook his head. That was a long time ago, he told himself and refocused on the room in front of him instead of the planet Gallifrey.
The Doctor had watched Rose struggle with this fever for over a day now. He asked if he should take her to hospital, but she had told him no. She didn't like hospitals, she'd said, and had told him that she just needed some rest and she'd be okay. The Doctor hadn't been sure but she had smiled a little at him, albeit a pained one, and that had eased his mind. Until last night.
Last night, Rose had begun the murmuring and she hadn't stopped. At first, he had foolishly thought she was okay, but then she had mentioned the TARDIS—something she hadn't done in months. The Doctor swallowed when he thought back to several hours ago. She had said, with her eyes barely open, that she'd wanted to go back to Barcelona. The Doctor had swallowed and promised that he'd take her back there as soon as she was better. Rose had smiled, a genuine smile despite her illness, and had then shifted in bed and gone back to dozing.
The very human Doctor wasn't sure what else he was supposed to do. He knew very well that she was not talking about the city in Spain and he wished that she was. But he wouldn't lie to himself, no, he had too much of the other Doctor in his body, in his mind, to ever lie to himself convincingly. He had watched for several hours since from the little chair and had hoped that Rose's mutterings would cease, but they hadn't. He'd hoped that she'd stop asking for things from the other Doctor, things he couldn't give her, but she hadn't. He'd hoped he would stop feeling guilty for things not his fault and for not being able do all that Rose wanted to do, but he couldn't. For one brief moment, he'd wanted not to love her so much, but he could not do that either.
He felt bad for wishing he didn't love her and regretted the thought. Rose was everything; she was special, she was different, she was Rose. How could he not love such a beautiful Rose? He would never tell her that he had wanted that, no matter that it was only for a few seconds. He would never tell himself he wanted that again either, no matter what happened.
That didn't stop the look in his eye, though. That look of sadness that mixed horribly wonderfully with the guilty feelings of being inadequate. The Doctor looked down at his hands, the first time he looked away from the bed in hours, and he swallowed stiffly. He could feel his heart beating, only one, and he could smell with senses dulled from the fact that he didn't have his alien-sharpened senses. He was human, and he was terribly aware of that. He felt guilt, an overwhelming irrational guilt, that he wasn't good enough for Rose. He knew that she looked at him differently than she would the other version of him. He couldn't help that, he knew that, but that didn't stop him from wishing she would. He might have been a carbon copy of The Doctor, but he lacked a time-machine and any sort of way to create one. If he could, he thought, he would take Rose away from this place in their own adventure. But he couldn't, he couldn't.
And he felt bad, because he couldn't. This lacking factor would always prevent Rose from ever really loving him the same, perhaps even if he did have the methodology, Rose still wouldn't find it enough. The Doctor sighed softly and continued to look at his hands. Pale, human hands. He could remember when those hands were a bit bigger and a bit thicker and he had had a cheery Northern accent and less hair. Rose had first loved him when he was daft looking. Perhaps she could find it in herself to love someone that looked the same, felt the same, and remembered everything the same. Perhaps,perhaps.