Opening her eyes, half-alarmed and half-annoyed as the Doctor shook her shoulder, Rose Tyler sat bolt upright and flicked on the light. He never woke her up in the middle of the night, and with good reason. She was never exactly in the best of moods when she was awakened before it was light.
"What's going on?" she yawned. "You better have a really good exc—"
"I thik I'b dyig," responded the Doctor thickly, his eyes wide and irrationally worried. "I cad't breathe, add by head feels all hot, add—" He lapsed into coughing, and Rose sighed. Hadn't she warned him about this? Everyone in the house had passed along a cold for almost the entire month, now, and it wasn't as though the Doctor didn't know what germs were. Was it?
"You're not dying," Rose sighed, trying to be patient. It was still dark out—couldn't have been later than four. "You have what we humans call a cold. Just like the one I got over a couple days ago."
"But I cad't breathe!" protested the Doctor, childlike in his anxiety. Even though Rose found it hard to be annoyed at him for long, he was definitely pushing it. "What if I'b—"
"Doctor!" barked Rose, silencing him abruptly (almost laughing at the shocked expression on his face) and rolling out of bed. "Stay here," she added in a mutter, wandering over to their bathroom and pouring out some cough medicine a moment later.
When she returned, the Doctor whimpered hoarsely. Rose rolled her eyes and handed him the tiny cup of medicine, which he regarded with some puzzlement. "Don't tell me you don't know what that is," she growled. "This is a cold. That is medicine. What about this makes you think you're dying?" She yanked the covers over herself irritably, almost spilling the cherry-red syrup onto the sheets.
"I've dever gotted a cold before," he muttered, eyeing the medicine distrustfully. "Tibe Lords dod't get sick." As the Doctor looked up, she saw a rebelliousness in his eyes she had seldom seen before, and not for the first time she wondered how much of Donna's personality he had received. He wasn't quite the same as he had been beforehand, that was for certain… but it was a largely pleasant change. He was a bit more confident, slightly more romantic, and had an even better sense of humor than he had had beforehand. (Even if he was a tad more opinionated and argumentative.)
While she was thinking in her hazy, four-o'-clock frame of mind, the Doctor sipped at his syrup and pulled a face. Rose couldn't help but laugh at his innocence a little; it was technically his own fault. She had banished him from the bedroom in the hopes that he wouldn't catch it, but the Doctor had sneaked right back in before she was better, and she didn't have the heart to refuse him.
"This is disgustig!" He marched out of bed and poured the bitter liquid down the drain. "I'd rather dot be able to breathe thad…" He was overtaken by another fit of coughing. "By throat hurts," proclaimed the Doctor feebly, after Rose began to worry that he would choke, and slid back into bed. She half considered reprimanding him, but decided she didn't want to get in an argument when she was already exhausted.
"…Now I have to be the doctor," Rose muttered resentfully, getting up again wearily and searching the medicine cabinet for anything that would let them both sleep. Even a sledgehammer she could use to hit him over the head would work, in her book.
No such sledgehammer was available, however, and Rose meandered down to the kitchen, wincing as she heard the Doctor cough again. It was really a horrible cold—just his luck he got all the symptoms at once for his first time ever. But Rose was going to cure him, damn it, even if she had to wander to the petrol station and buy all the medicine in stock.
Grape juice. That would keep the flavor of the syrup hidden, and then maybe he wouldn't whine about it. Lollipop. That would coat his throat and give him a bit of relief there, and maybe shut him up too. Ice pack. That would keep him from getting too warm. Rose briefly considered making him tea as well, but decided she'd just do that in the morning and tiptoed upstairs, trying not to spill the grape juice on the carpet. Even if her dad was filthy rich—a fact Rose was still getting used to after almost a year—she didn't exactly want to make them clean up after her mess. Traveling with the Doctor had given her a previously unknown sense of self-sufficiency.
Determinedly re-pouring the cough syrup and brandishing it at him again (he looked terrified and scooted back against the headboard), Rose couldn't suppress a laugh, which he returned weakly, still staring apprehensively at the tiny cup.
"How to take cough syrup," she began, knowing from the Doctor's expression that she looked too dangerous for him to argue with at the moment. "Step one—hold your nose."
The Doctor did as instructed, albeit bemused.
"Step two—drink it down. Fast!" she urged, as the Doctor swallowed the red liquid, looking vaguely queasy. "Step three. Drink this!" She thrust the cup of grape juice at him, which he gulped down immediately, looking relieved when he surfaced again. Can't believe I even have to explain this…
The Doctor looked dutifully back up at her, meekly awaiting the next set of instructions, and Rose couldn't help but smile. This was an aspect of her partner that never ceased to please her. He practically worshipped her, as her mother had been kind enough to point out on more than one occasion. Yes, thank you, Mum, we know.
"Put this on your forehead," commanded Rose, handing him the ice pack as she realized her fingers were beginning to hurt from its coldness. After the Doctor obeyed, Rose unwrapped the lollipop and stuck it in his mouth as soon as he opened it to say something.
"What'sh thish for!" he exclaimed through the mouthful of candy.
"Coats a sore throat, and makes it less sore," responded Rose tersely. "Anything else I can help with?" she added, not wanting to be reawakened with more needless panic. You'd think he was nine years old instead of nine centuries.
The Doctor shook his head exhaustedly, closing his eyes and sinking back onto his pillow, lying on top of the covers and practically soaked in sweat. Rose rolled her eyes mentally as she realized she couldn't go to sleep while he was still wakefully suffering, and hauled herself out of bed one more time, fetching a damp washcloth and sticking her hand up his shirt (which was met with a faint protest which quickly changed into eager contentment) to sponge him off a bit.
After a long time of sitting in silence, for which Rose was grateful, she realized the Doctor was asleep. Kissing his forehead, still cool from the recently removed ice pack, Rose turned out the light, half-expecting the Doctor to jump up and insist she stay awake. But his breathing remained slow, deep, rhythmic… and painfully congested.
Rose sighed in empathy, and was almost asleep again before she stirred herself back into half-wakefulness by laughing softly in the pre-sunrise, ambiguous darkness.
Nine hundred and seven years of saving planets and fighting monsters, and he's terrified of colds!
((I don't even know, I have a cold and thought I'd inflict it on him too. Please tell me whether that was actually fluff, or falsely advertised as such, because I am so ridiculously inexperienced in things that aren't depressing.))