"Doctor Who" and its characters are, of course, the property of the BBC. No infringement is intended.

He was humming as he worked, a little piece that never made it into "The Marriage of Figaro" but was awfully catchy nonetheless. His hands were wrapped in wires, the sonic screwdriver was clasped between his teeth, and he was really quite content. Still, he missed her. He liked asking her to hand him things or just listening to her chatter on about what they'd seen or done. He loved telling her about other places and times and hearing the excitement in her little oohs and aahs as he spoke.

She had only been gone twenty-four hours, and he was going to retrieve her in less than twenty-four more, but still, he was eager to see her again. She brought an effervescence to the TARDIS; it almost seemed dim inside without her.

When the phone on the console rang, he banged his head in his haste to disentangle himself and scoot out from underneath the panels. Had he lost track of the time? That was unlikely, since he was a Time Lord after all. Or perhaps she'd grown bored with Jackie's tiresome domesticity or the humdrum monotony of her London neighborhood.

He reached for the phone. "Rose!" he said a bit too eagerly.

"Doctor?"

He nearly dropped the handset. Jackie's voice was the last thing he had expected to hear.

"Jackie? Why are you calling? Is something wrong?"

"Rose'd kill me if she knew I'd got hold of her phone and was callin', but are you anywhere nearby?"

"Not exactly, but I can be."

"Yeah? How soon?"

"An hour ago, if need be. What's going on?"

"It's Rose. I have to get to work—I'm jus' startin' a new job, and if I'm late they'll sack me, an' I really need this, it's a good position, good pay—"

"What about Rose?" the Doctor interjected.

"Oh. She'll be all right, I think, but I don't want to leave her alone, at least not right now, while she'd in the middle of it."

"Middle of what?" He tried to remain calm, but obtaining information from Rose's mother was like pulling teeth in the twentieth century…

"It was the soup, it was. She didn't know it had bits a' clam in it."

"Not a fan of clams, is she?"

"No, Doctor, not at all. She's allergic."

"Allergic?" His mind began to race with dire possibilities. "Is she in anaphylaxis?"

He was already working at the controls with his free hand.

"Anna Phil where?"

"Anaphylaxis—severe allergic reaction—trouble breathing, fingernails and edges of the mouth turning blue—"

"Oh, no, it's nothin' like that, jus' her stomach. I've seen it before. It jus' needs to work its way outta her system, but like I said, I hate to leave her alone, an' Mickey's outta town, an' Shireen has to work."

"I'll be there in five minutes," he said.

"I can't stay—gotta run. I'll leave the key with the neighbor to my right."

"All right, fine."

"Thank you, Doctor. I—I knew I could count on you."

There was a tiny click, and the lines were disconnected. The Doctor finished programming the TARDIS then hurried from the console room and down the hall as the time ship dematerialised a few blocks from Jackie's flat.

Rose was hunched over the toilet for the fifth time, or was it the sixth, in the last three hours. She had considered just lying on the bathroom floor more than once, because she was really too exhausted to return to her bed, but the tile was hard and cold, and her bed at least felt soft and warm, and she was so sweaty and her stomach hurt, really hurt, but at least it would be over soon, and at least by the time the Doctor picked her up tomorrow night she'd be all right, and he'd never have to know.

She retched again and thought what a sight she must be. Her hair hung in damp strands around her face, and she could tell that she was white as a sheet. If there was one thing for which she felt a tiny bit thankful it was that the Doctor would not have to see her like this, and she would not have to be subjected to his good-natured but annoying eye rolls and comments about how weak human bodies were. She remembered all too well his scathing remarks when they'd seen a man bent over outside a pub, vomiting all over the sidewalk. Granted, it wasn't a pretty sight, but some of the Doctor's words seemed rather unnecessary to her. The phrase "pathetically primitive digestive systems, you lot," seemed to echo particularly loudly in her head just this moment.

Rose finally stood on shaky legs, leaning against the sink heavily. She wanted to splash some water on her face and rinse out her mouth, but she couldn't find the energy. She turned to the door and managed just two steps before her legs gave out and she felt herself falling to the hard tile floor.

And then she stopped. Just before her head hit the ceramic, she felt something catch her arms. She must be delirious, because her mum had left some time ago. But someone was definitely holding her arms, pulling her upright, out of the fog that was clouding her mind.

Rose blinked. A face swam into view before her—a very familiar face with brown, not ginger, hair and a delicate nose, and a frequently smiling mouth that was not smiling at all now.

"Oh God," she groaned. He was truly the last person that she wanted to see.

"Well," said the Doctor, "I'm not quite that powerful, but you aren't the first one to try to call me that." A thin smile crossed his lips.

Rose's stomach flip-flopped again, but she managed to swallow hard and avoid any embarrassing upheavals. She did not, however, manage to avert the renewed efforts of her legs to collapse beneath her.

"Blimey, Rose," he said with a shake of his head, "I leave you alone for one day and look what happens." Then he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to her bed.

"What…" Her mouth felt terribly dry, and her throat stung, and it took a rather concerted effort to get the words out. "What're you doin' here?"

"Thought I'd stop in and see how you were doin'. And from the looks of it, I got here just in time." He fluffed her pillow, and she permitted herself to sink down.

Rose had thought that having the Doctor see her like this, pale and sweaty and about to vomit any second, was just about the worst thing that could happen to her. But then she remembered that she was wearing only a very tatty old t-shirt and a tiny pair of bikini panties. She'd forgone pyjama bottoms; anything against her stomach had only intensified the nausea.

To make matters even worse, she was starting to shiver, partly from the lack of clothing, partially from the nausea, and in large part from sheer mortification. She reached for a blanket with shaking hands, concentrating her gaze on anything that wasn't his face. She didn't want to see the disapproving look she knew she'd find there.

Suddenly she felt his hands cover hers, wrapping around them and squeezing softly.

"You're cold," he stated simply, then he moved his hands to pull the blanket up over her legs. She knew he was thinking how ridiculous her metabolism was, how silly and backward and primitive her 37 degree body temperature was.

Rose looked at the ceiling. She could see him in her peripheral vision, hovering next to the bed, inspecting the few items Jackie had set out on the night table. His arm moved, and he rested his palm against her cheek. She knew how clammy her skin felt, and she tried to turn her face away. But the hand followed her movements, sliding up to feel at her forehead.

"I didn't know about you and clams," he said.

"Never thought it was necessary to tell you." Her voice was barely above a whisper. God, her throat really did hurt; it felt raw, almost scorched.

"How long have you been ill?"

She sighed and closed her eyes. Maybe he'd think she'd fallen asleep.

After a minute, she felt his hand on her shoulder. "Rose? Feeling queasy again?"

Again? That implied that the nausea had abated at some point, which it hadn't. Instead, she replied, "'M okay."

She began to turn over, away from him to face the wall. But the movement jarred the already achy muscles in her abdomen, and she groaned involuntarily. To make matters worse, she felt the nausea roiling up again.

"Damn it," she hissed, beginning to roll herself off the bed.

She'd made it to the bathroom all the other times, but she was so tired, so sore now. Her feet touched the floor, and she tried to stand, clapping a hand over her mouth in hopes of stalling the inevitable for just a few seconds more.

The Doctor's arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her back. She felt the bile rising and the first wave of the horrible muscle contractions, and she tried to push away. But he held her firmly, and she was going to be sick on him, and he would never forget that, oh no, he would really think her pathetic after this one…

"Rose, here."

A large bowl appeared in front of her. He was still holding her, supporting her with one arm, but he held the bowl securely until she managed to grasp it.

She bent over it and retched. A very tiny bit of something came up, just enough to reignite the fire in her throat and cause her to cough rather violently. Her eyes swam with tears, and for a moment she felt dizzy, disorientated, and all she could focus on, all she had the strength to do, was to hold the bowl so that she wouldn't get anything on him.

She coughed again, and the bowl began to slip from her hands.

"It's okay," she heard him say. "I've got it."

She allowed her hands to drop to the bed. His arm was still around her, and his hand moved up to rest coolly against her forehead as she bent toward the bowl with another cough. This time nothing came out, but still she coughed and retched again. Tears streamed down her face, fueled by the vomiting and her embarrassment and humiliation.

When she had finished, still blinking through the teary haze, the bowl vanished and the wonderful hand against her forehead disappeared, and she thought she was alone again for just an instant. But then the Doctor helped her to lean back, and she realized that his chest was behind her. She was resting against him. His hand was moving, reaching for her wrist, and his touch felt cold for an instant, then he rubbed at the skin softly for just a few strokes.

He lifted his hand and ran his fingers over her cheek. She allowed herself to enjoy the soothing motion for a minute until she remembered how she had just debased herself completely. She began to pull away, wiping her hand over her mouth.

He shifted around and permitted her to lie back against the pillows. Still she kept her eyes on the ceiling or on the wall, not daring to look at him. He vanished for a few moments then returned to sit on the edge of the bed and wipe a warm, wet cloth over her mouth, forehead, and damp cheeks. She managed to keep her eyes on his hand, avoiding his face.

"Dizzy?" he asked simply.

She shook her head just a little and whispered, "No."

"No?" He sounded perplexed, but he did not pursue the question any further. Instead he lifted her head and held a glass of water to her lips.

"No," she gasped out, appalled at the prospect of putting anything in her stomach just now.

"You need fluids, Rose. You're dehydrated."

She felt the tears welling again. "I can't drink that."

"Why not?"

His voice was gentle, but she was sure she could hear a hint of disapproval in his tone.

"I can't keep it down," she said, and her own voice was a mixture of anger and frustration.

"Of course you can."

Abruptly he lifted her hand and turned it so that she could see her wrist. A small patch was pressed over the skin. She squinted at it. "What's that?"

"It's for the nausea. It should already have taken effect. It has, hasn't it?" He sounded a bit anxious, and he ran a finger over the patch..

Rose thought for a few seconds. Her throat was still awfully raw, and her stomach ached, but she was no longer queasy. She exhaled slowly, and he offered her the water again.

She drank just a sip, fighting the initial impulse that surely she would be sick again, but her stomach felt settled, so she swallowed a little more. The water stung her throat, though, so she handed the glass back to him.

When she looked up, forgetting for an instant that she'd intended to look away, she saw that he was watching her, and his lips were curved up in a small smile. If she didn't know better, she'd interpret his expression as one of gentle approbation.

"How's the dizziness now?" he asked, setting the water aside for the moment.

"Better." She wanted to look away again, but his smile widened.

"I was a little worried there for a few minutes. You seemed to be having trouble focusing on me. Must've been the dehydration. Give your brain a bit to catch up to your stomach, then have some more water."

"My brain?" she asked.

"Oh yes. It's got so used to sending out those signals of nausea that it needs a little time to figure out that you won't be needing to bring anything else up now. Nice bit of operant conditioning, that, but not terribly functional after a time."

Rose wasn't sure what operant conditioning was, but she knew, of course, what functional implied, and she was fairly certain that the dreaded mild castigation was just around the corner… She looked away again.

However, his hand found her chin, and he brought her face up so that he could look directly at her. She had little choice but to return the gaze. She steeled herself for his next words. When they came, she could only stare at him, trying to process what he'd said.

"I'm sorry, Rose."

After what felt like at least a minute, she muttered, "Huh?"

"I'm sorry. If I'd known you were sick, I would have come sooner, and you could have avoided most of this. A bit of anti-nausea medicine, a quick injection to neutralise the allergic reaction, and you'd have been good as new in no time. Which reminds me…"

He lowered her chin with a small stroke of his thumb across her cheek then reached into his pocket. He pulled out his glasses, donning them quickly, then poked his hand into his jacket again and withdrew something that resembled a small, stainless steel tube. There was a little blue bulge at one end and a pink, shiny surface on the opposite tip. He took her arm and pressed the pink end against her skin. She felt a tiny pop and the smallest flicker of pain, then it was gone.

"Now you can eat all the clams you want and they won't bother you." He was grinning and tucking the device back into his pocket. "But really, Rose, if I'd known, I could've given you this ages ago. Any other allergies? Because I can take care of those just as easily."

She shook her head.

"No others? Well, that's good. Seems most humans have at least one."

"Yeah, silly us," she murmured.

"Hmm?" He slipped off his glasses and set them on the night table. "Now for me," he continued, "it's aspirin. Can't tolerate the stuff for anything. One little orange baby aspirin and I just about need to regenerate."

Rose stared at him in disbelief. "You have an allergy?" She emphasized the pronoun rather heavily.

"Oh, yes, doesn't almost everyone?"

Rose coughed; her throat was very dry. "S'pose so."

He offered her the water again, and she took several swallows, but her throat still hurt. She winced and handed the glass back.

He cast his eyes briefly to her neck. "Throat's sore from the vomiting?"

"Yeah."

Once again his hand slipped into a pocket and he produced a little vial, which he poured into her water glass. The clear liquid turned pink then purple as he swirled it about. He passed the glass to her. "Bottoms up."

Rose took a tentative swallow. Immediately her throat stopped hurting, so she drank the rest.

"Thanks," she managed. "D'you have an entire pharmacy in there?" She pointed at his jacket.

"What else do you need?" He began rummaging around in an outer pocket.

"Nothin'. But you just happened to have all this stuff with you?" She eyed him critically.

He had taken yet another item from his jacket—something resembling the little soy sauce packets provided with Chinese carry-out. He refilled her glass from a pitcher then added the contents of the packet. This time the water turned a pale shade of orange. He seemed preoccupied with his mixing and did not answer her question. He gave her the glass and a warm smile.

"What's in this one then?" she asked. Everything else he'd given her had been quite helpful, but still, one never knew…

"Nice little cocktail of electrolytes, potassium, a couple of other things to rehydrate you." He waggled his fingers at the glass. "Come on, drink up—all of it."

Rose complied. The concoction tasted vaguely citrus and really quite pleasant. She was beginning to feel much better. She even caught herself starting to smile as she watched him fussing about with the water pitcher, wiping a few stray drops from the table.

When he looked back at her, he grinned. "That's better!"

"What's better?"

"You. Gray skin on a Gurootian is rather becoming, but on a human it's a bit off-putting. I really prefer a nice pinkish tone."

Rose touched her cheek. Her skin wasn't clammy any more, but she could feel the residue of sweat, tears, and make-up. "I need a shower," she said.

He regarded her for a moment with a half-raised eyebrow then poured some more water, to which he added a second little packet. "One more glass," he said.

She leaned forward to take it, but her sorely abused stomach muscles protested rather violently. Rose let out a small grunt of pain and compressed her lips. She wrapped a protective arm around her belly.

"Not more nausea?" the Doctor asked with concern. He was already taking her wrist to check the patch.

"No," she said. "Just a little sore is all."

He studied her for a few seconds. "Hmm. Muscle strain combined with dehydration—not much fun, that. Mind if I try something?"

She wasn't sure she liked the phrasing of his question. "What's that?"

He patted the pillow invitingly. "Get comfy."

With just a hint of reservation, Rose lay back, trying not to wince at the pain this motion brought.

"Close your eyes," he said with a gentle smile.

At the moment, she found his voice very soothing somehow. She allowed her eyelids to lower, feeling quite sleepy. Something brushed against her stomach, then there was a slightly cool sensation. She realized that the Doctor had rested his hand over her belly. She opened her eyes in surprise.

"No, no! No peeking," he said.

But she did peek, and she saw that he had slid his hand under her shirt. He was sitting on the bed beside her. His other hand was on the pillow.

"Really, Rose, it's going to work better if you keep your eyes closed."

She was really too exhausted to resist, so she shut her eyes.

"Think about a big block of ice," he said. "Imagine it sitting in the sun, getting warmer and starting to melt away. Watch the water dripping off and feel the warmth of the sunshine. Can you feel, it Rose?"

"Mmm," she murmured, and her belly felt very warm.

"The block is getting smaller, and it's so nice and warm in the sun. All that ice is melting, just getting littler and littler, and the warmth is spreading to you, over you, and just like the ice, everything cold and tight is melting away."

Rose was on the verge of sleep, snuggly and comfortable and content. The ringing of the phone jarred her awake abruptly. Her eyes shot open to see the Doctor just pulling his hand away from her face. She hadn't even realized he'd been touching her. His fingers moved in a small, soft circle over her stomach.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded. "Much."

The phone, of course, had not stopped ringing. She began to sit up. "I'd better get that. It's probably Mum."

He stood. "No, I'll take care of it."

He hurried from the room, and in a few seconds she could hear his voice softly from the kitchen, but she couldn't understand his words.

She sat, moving tentatively and finding that the soreness was gone. The Doctor returned, and she asked who had called.

"Oh, just someone trying to sell something," he replied off-handedly. He began gathering up the empty packets and vial from the table, tucking them back into his pocket.

"You never did tell me why you had all that stuff on you," she said.

"Gut feeling?"

She shook her head. "Really, how did you know?" For an instant she glanced out toward the hallway. "Oh God, is was Mum, wasn't it? She called you!"

Rose buried her face in her hands, embarrassment washing over her again.

"Would it be so bad if she had?" he asked. She felt him sit down next to her again.

"She knew I didn't want you to see me like this," Rose blurted out. Her cheeks were burning.

He moved her hands and bent to look at her. "Why not?" His expression was one of puzzlement.

"Because—" she paused for an instant. "I look awful, an' I was throwin' up all over the place, an' it just showed how weak I am—"

Now he appeared even more perplexed. "Rose, you were sick. You couldn't help it. I'm just sorry I didn't know sooner. Like I said before, I could've prevented just about all of it."

She saw only compassion, kindness, and solicitude in his expression. There was no hint of condescension.

She swallowed the torrent of words that she'd planned to say. Instead, she simply uttered, "Thank you" and reached out to give his hand a squeeze.

He grinned and drawled, "Aw, shucks, it weren't nothin'." The grin faded to a gentle smile, and his tone became a little more serious. "I'm glad I could help you."

"Yeah, me too."

He regarded her for a few seconds, eyes running over her face. "I think you said something about a shower? Probably make you feel more yourself."

"Yeah."

He stood. "I'll see what Jackie has in the cupboard. Feelin' up to some soup?"

"Sure, as long as it's not clam chowder."

He lifted a finger in playful admonishment. "Nope, I fixed that. Clams can now be your friend."

She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe some day, but right now I think my brain is still playin' catch-up with my stomach."

"Chicken, then, and maybe some toast. Fancy a cuppa, too?"

"Definitely."

Rose began to get up, tugging at the hem of the shirt in a futile attempt at modesty, but she realized that the Doctor was already at the door with his back to her. Still, there was one more thing she felt she needed to say.

"Doctor?"

He stopped and turned half-way. "Yes, Rose?

"I'm glad she called you."

"Me too. Now off to the shower for you and into the kitchen for me."

He disappeared down the hall.

Once safely in the kitchen, the Time Lord waited a few minutes until he could hear the shower running then he picked up the phone. Jackie had asked him to call back; she had needed further reassurances than he could provide in their brief conversation ten minutes ago

The Doctor keyed in her number and waited for her to answer.

"Doctor?"

"Yep, that's me."

"She's all right? I mean, you said you were takin' care of her. Is she feelin' better?"

"Much. She's just about to have something to eat."

Jackie's tone showed her surprise. "Really? I thought she'd be sick to her stomach for at least a few more hours."

"Nope, she's all better."

"How did you…" Jackie paused, seeming to think better of asking the question. "Never mind. I don't think I want to know."

He began rummaging through the cupboard, finally pulling out a can of soup. "Chicken noodle or chicken with stars?" he asked.

"What?"

"Which one does Rose prefer?"

"You're making soup for her?" Jackie sounded more than a bit surprised. "Noodle, then."

The Doctor balanced the phone on his shoulder as he opened the can. It seemed for a moment that he'd forgotten that he was conversing with Jackie. Finally she spoke again.

"Doctor? Are you still there?"

"Yep. But I should get back to this—one can of water, is it?"

"All right. I'll be home by six."

"I'll be sure to leave before then. 'Bye." His finger hovered over the receiver.

"Doctor—wait."

"Yes?"

"Why don't you stay… for tea."

He hesitated. "You know that's not really… " He glanced down at the soup can and the pot he'd set on the stove. "Six, did you say?"

"Yes."

"See you then." He began to lower the phone from his ear, but he flicked it back up for just a moment to say, "Thanks for calling."

"Oh—I wanted to see how she was."

"No, Jackie, before."

"You didn't mind?"

"No."

With that final word, he hung up and returned his attention to the soup. The small, lost snippet from "The Marriage of Figaro" echoed through the little room with his cheery whistle.

Fin