Disclaimer: And once again, I still don't own Doctor Who. Maybe if I hadn't picked ancient history as my career choice…
AN: The Nestene Consciousness. The End of the World. Ghosts that weren't ghosts. The Slitheen. Rose Tyler needs a break. How would the never-ending cycle of TARDIS life effect the human body? Sometimes, the Doctor forgets how fragile they really are.
I hate writing Nine.
She's said goodbye to Mickey and her mom; knowing she had to go, but regretting it all the same. After everything that's happened in the past, what, two days? Three? Four? She doesn't know how long it's been since she left Mickey in that alley. Inside the TARDIS, time seems to not exist. She catnapped after they left Dickens, but she hasn't slept beyond that. Can't have been more than two days, then.
But she's tired and only now beginning to come down off another "we're alive" high. The adrenaline that she's already gotten used to; that she thrives off of, is leaving her bone weary. She needs a break.
"So, past, future? Choices, choices. Got the whole of time and space at your disposal, Rose Tyler; where would you like to go now?" He seems almost giddy. Well, she guesses, they did just save the world. Or rather, Mickey did.
"Bed." The word comes out as barely more than a whisper. Her eyes are fighting her to stay open now.
"What?" He appears momentarily speechless. "Bed? What for?"
"Don't know 'bout you, but we humans need sleep. A lot." She wants to get up and find a nice comfy bed to lie down on, but she can't even work up the energy to do that. Are there even beds in the TARDIS? She's really too tired to care.
"Oh." He pauses, observing her. She stops fighting the battle against her eyes. "Rose?" The voice is so close to her ear it startles her enough to open them again. "You alright?"
"Tired," she explains, unnecessarily. Her eyes close again and so she doesn't notice when he makes a move to pick her up, but the suddenness of it elicits a startled squeak.
"What?"
"Not sure you're up to walking right now," he remarks, dryly. She has to acknowledge he's probably right. He walks so softly she begins to nod off again, only opening her eyes one last time when he sets her down on something soft.
Bedroom, her brain acknowledges. Bed, she further observes. Sleep, is her last thought before conscious thought disappears all together.
She wakes with the worst hangover she's ever had, except when her brain sluggishly kicks into gear a minute later, she remembers she hasn't been drinking.
The room she's in is mercifully dark, but there's just enough light coming from somewhere to make out the shape and furnishings. She'll admire it later, but right now she needs to get off the bed and across the room to the door that, she hopes, leads to a loo.
Sitting up makes her head spin sickeningly, and the ache that was looming lying down blossoms into a full blown pounding. Oh, God…
It is only the desperate need that drives her stumbling across the room and into the, thankfully, pretty nice toilette. The first problem taken care of, she spends an eternity of only a few minutes fighting against the nausea that started about the second she sat up, before finally giving in. It makes her headache much, much worse, but stops her stomach rolling at least for awhile.
She washes her face in the sink, uncaring that she's smudging her makeup all over. Stumbling back to the bed she tugs her jumper off – it's too hot for it – before crawling ever so carefully back amongst the blankets and pillows. Despite the pounding in her head, sleep claims her mercifully quickly.
She doesn't hear the first knock. It's quiet and she's still sound asleep, but the second – louder – one wakes her up so suddenly she jerks into a sitting position. And immediately regrets it. The headache is most certainly not gone, and the nausea spins back into her awareness. She takes a moment of deep breaths, fighting for control.
Knock.
Oh, God, not now. What's he going to think? What's he going to do? Leave her alone to wallow in her misery or dump her back on her mother's doorstep?
Probably the latter, she assumes.
Knock. "Rose? You awake?"
If she doesn't answer, maybe he'll go away. She lies back down as quietly as she can. A moment passes. Another. And just when she thinks she's escaped, at least for now, the door slides open silently.
Crap.
"Rose?" She hopes the lack of light will make it look like she's still asleep. Except the lights choose that particular moment to brighten. Oh, she's lost the game now.
"Yeah?" she manages to croak. She's thirsty now too, but the mere thought of even water makes her stomach roll again.
"You alright?" He's stopped only a few feet into the room.
She contemplates lying for approximately three point two seconds, before discarding that idea as stupidity. She's well aware she looks about as bad as she feels. "No," she sighs.
He takes that as as much of an invitation as she's going to give. He approaches the bed slowly, seemingly hesitant. Yeah, okay, so they've only known each other for two; three; four days, right? And he's in 'her' room. Bit awkward, that.
She's aware he's studying her, much in the way she's seen him study anything interesting. She closes her eyes and burrows deeper under the covers, even though she's hot enough already.
"Blimey, Rose, this a new look? I hear raccoon's in for the season." He's standing beside the bed looking right down at her and she's trying desperately not to meet his gaze. "How ya feeling?"
She wants to glare at him for asking really obvious questions, but even glaring takes too much effort. "Sick," she mumbles instead.
"Yeah, kinda figured that one. And I asked, how are you feeling?" He enunciates each world seemingly in case she didn't understand the first time.
It takes extreme effort, but this time she does glare at him. "How'd ya think?"
He gazes appraisingly at her again. "Headache. Nauseous. Fever. Crap."
"Crap's a symptom?"
"I'd say," he grins at her. "Been sick?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Been round anyone sick? Before I picked ya up?" They both contemplate that choice of words.
"No." At least she can't remember anyone being sick. But with Henrik's, who knows? There was always something going around at any one time.
"Right, let's see. Platform One? Naw, clean air environment. Cardiff? Maybe, but you weren't out in the cold long, were you? Although, corpses…." She cringes. "Jackie pick something up?"
"Don't know," she grounds out at the same time she loses the ever worsening battle with her stomach. She scrambles off the bed just as he steps back and makes it to the toilette with seconds to spare.
He's gone when she emerges. Sighing in relief – at least Twenty Questions is over – she crawls back into bed and prays for death.
It comes in the form of the door opening some short time later. Oh God, can't he leave me alone?
The bed shifts as he sits down. "You don't have to move," he comments dryly when she doesn't acknowledge his presence.
A hum interrupts the constant stream of less than kind words that are running through her head. She's horrid when she sick, or at least her mother always says so. She contemplates turning over to see what he's doing, but quickly shelves the idea. She ain't moving; not for anything.
The hum stops. "Rose?" Still not moving. "Rose, come on, turn over."
Nope.
"Last chance." What does he mean by that? her brain asks right before a sharp pressure on the back of her exposed arm has her flipping over faster than she thought possible.
"Wha—?" She chokes out. His expression is completely blank, but she's moved fast enough that he's still sitting on the bed beside her, scanner in one hand, hypo in the other.
"Feel better?" He grins suddenly.
Rose pauses. Actually…yes. The nausea is gone, the headache is quickly fading along with the aches and pains and maybe she doesn't feel quite as hot as she did a moment ago.
He's still waiting for an answer. "Maybe…yes."
"Fantastic. Now go back to sleep, yeah? Although, maybe wanna wash that makeup off first," he gestures at her face.
She remembers, suddenly, what she must look like. Crap.
He's nearly out the door. "Wait! Get back in here!" He turns, smiling at her.
"Yes?"
"What did you do?" She already has a pretty good idea, but she wants it from him.
"What? You thought 'Doctor' was just an honourary title, ya?" He brandishes the hypo in his right hand. "Be fine now. Get some sleep." And he's gone before she can get another word out.
She stands, cautiously at first, but the dizziness is gone, and neither the nausea or headache return. Her face though, in the mirror over the sink, is horrifying. Which matches how she's starting to feel now that the other problems are taken care of.