"Welp," Rose said cheerfully, "This is gonna leave a mark."

"Really? Think so?" the Doctor asked, surprisingly chipper for a chap whose chin had a great big needle jutting out of it.

Rose nodded. "Not a big one," she admitted, pulling the needle the rest of the way through and looping back for another go. She wove it through his flesh, pinching the lips of his wound together, and tried not to think of a hook in a fish's mouth. "Just enough that the tabloids are gonna have a field day."

"I'll just tell them I was abducted by aliens."

Chuckling, Rose cinched the suture closed and clipped off the ends. It was sort of surreal, stitching up the Doctor like this—surreal because of him, specifically, not the other bit. She had bandaged and stitched up enough Torchwood operatives in the field (including herself) that she could practically do it in her sleep. But she had already teased him, the Doctor needing a doctor, and hoped that he could feel the worry behind the joke. Not to mention the implicit threat that if he ever tried something so stupid again, she would give him a whole new reason to need stitches.

"Besides," the Doctor said, his feet swinging aimlessly under the table. Wriggling his chin, as if to test the limits of his impromptu sewing project, he traced the inside of his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. He winced as his tongue prodded where he was most sensitive. "That's sort of an attractive thing, isn't it? A bloke with a dashing facial scar."

"Right. It's insanely attractive," Rose chuckled. "We all know the Phantom of the Opera scored all the ladies."

"That's my point, though—and don't think I missed that pun hiding in there, he 'scored', musical-sexual joke all in one, very clever, you should be punished for it immediately—the ladies in the audience almost invariably prefer that Christine ends up with the Phantom over the milquetoast fellow. Facial scars mean risk."

Suddenly his hands were on Rose's waist and she let out a surprised yelp as he pulled her flush against him. "Facial scars mean danger," he finished, his voice low, his eyebrow arching suggestively.

She laughed again, trapping her tongue between her teeth. "I think the only thing we're in danger of is popping your stiches," she said, peeling off one latex glove so she could gently grasp the Doctor's chin in her bare hand, holding him still to examine her work. Not too shabby; she wondered what Martha would think of it, if she would have done a better job. Maybe she should have asked her for some pointers in the brief overlap of their time together.

"It's the Harrison Ford effect," the Doctor said, refusing to be deterred, and Rose pulled back. "You like Harrison Ford. Right?"

"Of course I do," Rose replied, balling her gloves together and depositing them in a biohazard bag along with the rest of the medical detritus. "But in this universe, I don't think he's got a scar, so—"

"No scar?" the Doctor interrupted, bewildered. "But, that's sort of iconic, isn't it? What kind of mad world is it where Indiana Jones hasn't got that mark on his chin?"

Rose bit her lip nervously as she packed up the first aid kit. "Probably isn't a good time to tell you there isn't really an Indiana Jones here either."

The Doctor blinked for a few moments, silent and open-mouthed, while the truth sank in. "No…?" he tried, and faltered. "No cracking whip? No trusty fedora? No giant rolling ball of doom? No ridiculously over-exaggerated punching noises?"

"Nope," Rose said, shaking her head. "Sorry."

"Well, that proves it," the Doctor said with a great huff, throwing one hand up in the air so that it lands back on his thigh with a sad thump. "This universe is officially rubbish. Forget the stitches. This bit—now that's the real scar."

"Now you understand why I wanted to go back," Rose teased.

"True. And now that it's patently clear I've got nothing left to offer you without my looks, I expect you'll be firing up the Cannon again."

Rose hid a smile. "This mission did leave you hideously disfigured."

"And if I'm not a Vitex Heiress's devastatingly handsome trophy boyfriend, then what good am I?"

"None whatsoever," Rose said helpfully.

"I suspected as much."

Planting herself back between his legs, Rose draped her arms lazily around his neck. "So I guess this is goodbye?"

"Afraid so," the Doctor sighed, hands finding their way to her hips to draw her in closer. "After all, I can't compete with what the other universe has to offer."

"You really really can't."

"I expect you'll find the TARDIS straight off," the Doctor continued. "Clever as you are, and all. Tell the other Doctor I said hello."

"Shall I give him a kiss?" Rose asked.

The Doctor's mouth twisted. "Tell the other Doctor I said 'Sod off.'"

Laughing, Rose leaned down to press a soft kiss to his lip—just the top lip, no use stitching him up only to undo it all with a hard snog—and his hands squeezed her hips in response. She pulled back, or tried to anyway, but he held her close.

"I think," the Doctor said slowly, his breath warm on the side of her face, "that I won't like it, not being able to kiss you properly for a while."

"Got used to it, have you?"

"You know, I think I have."

Rose reached up to scratch the nape of his neck, fingernails scraping lightly at the base of his skull, and grinned at the hum that arose from him in response. "It'll be worth it. It's a sexy disfigurement, remember? I'm sure I'll love it just as much as the rest of you."

"Ah yes. If I am to be saved," the Doctor quoted, "it is because your love redeems me."

"Damn right it does," Rose muttered, and, surprised, the Doctor laughed.

(The wound did not heal into a magnificent scar; it did, however, leave a thin white line behind, barely noticeable to people who didn't know it was there. Rose was sure to kiss it often.)