I am celebrating my high school graduation with writing! Yay! So here's a story for your enjoyment, created because now that finals are done I finally have ample time for writing. I suppose this story has no real reason other than the fact that I wanted to write something. I was just thinking about how Rose would react to 10.5 after The Doctor leaves her for a second time on Bad Wolf Bay, and since I've been in a mood lately, I've decided on angst and fluff. I do like to write angsty Rose that leads to Ten/Rose fluff… hmm… is that normal? Tell me that's normal.

Anyway, just to clear up any confusion, The Doctor in this story is meant to be interpreted as 10.5. When discussing the original, he will be referred to as such. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. (Yet. Anybody want to come storm BBC with me? We can share the spoils!)

"Not an Atrox"

It was doubtless that Rose Tyler was depressed.

Nobody could blame her – not really. She'd spent a whole year working towards interdimensional travel in hopes to reclaim a life in her original universe and a place at the side of the famous Doctor from the battle at Cardiff. And once she'd gotten there at last, where did she end up? Right back in the world she'd been desperately trying to leave, standing on the beach where she'd gotten her heart destroyed, saying goodbye to the same man who had broken her heart… the man she loved with every fiber of her being.

It was confusing, however, to several of her friends and family members that she was as depressed as she was, when this time The Doctor had not left her alone. In fact, in the eyes of most people, he hadn't truly left her at all.

This new Doctor couldn't figure it out, either. He felt like the same man as the original. He had all the same memories, the same body, and to an extent, the same personality. The part of him that came from Donna had been slowly working its way out of his system, to term it loosely; in the past week since the departure of the TARDIS he had observed his temper flare less often and less intensely, and he was noticeably less belligerent.

The Doctor glanced over at the pot in which he'd planted the TARDIS coral given to him and Rose by the original Doctor. After that day at Bad Wolf Bay he had been sure Rose had accepted him as her Doctor, especially when he took into account the fact that he'd told her he loved her and she'd kissed him, but she had grown distant, and a week later she had hardly spoken to him. She'd barely even emerged from her bedroom.

To keep himself busy, he'd planted the coral and employed the techniques Donna had relayed to him. although he had been tweaking them until he found a way to increase the rate of growth not by 59, but 59 to the power of 59. He felt rather brilliant (not that he didn't often feel rather brilliant, but this victory in particular was especially spectacular). Already it had sprouted into what looked an ordinary toothpick. Well, if it was going to exercise its chameleon arch, he supposed it was better for it to cloak itself as a common household item rather than, say, architecture from Parva, a civilization of people only six millimeters tall. Come to think of it, was there an equivalent to Parva in this dimension? He'd have to look into that – it'd be interesting to find out.

While The Doctor considered worlds that may or may not exist on their dimensional plane, Rose was in her bedroom battling an intense feeling of nausea and trying, for the eighth time in the last hour, not to break down. Rationality told her she shouldn't feel so distraught over the original Doctor's departure, that he hadn't left her – she still had him. But a stronger part of her was screaming it wasn't the same, it wasn't him.

She'd started feeling sick yesterday afternoon, and had forgone food since then for fear she'd throw up. She wasn't altogether sure she didn't have a fever at this point, but she wasn't hot; fairly cold, really. She was even shivering.

She wasn't quite sure what she wanted to do about such a circumstance. She felt rather ashamed of the way she'd holed herself up in the past week, but she couldn't bear to look at the new Doctor. It made her remember, and she didn't want to. She both wanted him and didn't, because he was The Doctor and not at the same time. And now she was sick, probably having caught some virus in Torchwood. It had seemed everyone was sick there the last time she'd made a visit, but she thought she'd been so careful…

Her mum and Pete were off on some trip, at a convention for inventions such as the ones he created, having left her and the new Doctor yesterday. They wouldn't be returning for another week. Rose sighed as she curled up in her bed trying to alleviate the pain which had settled in the pit of her stomach, wishing she had her mum. Childish, perhaps, but she couldn't recall a time when she'd been sick and her mum hadn't been there for her. No, all she had in the house with her was the new Doctor, and the thought of going to him for comfort only made her feel sicker when she piled on the humiliation of hiding pathetically in her bedroom all week.

Still, she couldn't shut herself up forever. Eventually The Doctor would notice she hadn't emerged for food, which she'd at least been doing rather periodically for a week. If he hadn't noticed already, that was. Best to go out and pretend to be all right for a bit, hole back up in her room until she felt good enough to go out again and repeat the process until she felt truly better or her mum got back – whichever came first.

Groaning slightly, Rose shifted up into a sitting position and flexed her achy limbs. Why did everything hurt when one was sick? Steeling her nerve (and her stomach) she got up and crossed the room to her mirror, grimacing at her reflection. She hadn't bothered with makeup for a week, so there wasn't any issue with smudged eyeliner or smearing mascara, but a week of on and off crying had taken its toll on her eyes, which were thoroughly bloodshot and felt only half-open. Looking at them made them water, and Rose tore her gaze off the mirror and rubbed them vigorously.

She got dressed in clothes not wrinkled or tear-stained to further add to the illusion of her well (enough) being and, with a centering breath, slipped out of her bedroom, wobbling slightly on legs that felt too weak to hold her weight. She could only pray that she wouldn't collapse.

She meandered down the hall, pausing for brief moments when the room spun, and went out to the living room, where she found The Doctor leaning back in an armchair and staring contemplatively at the growing TARDIS. It appeared to have taken the form of a toothpick.

Her heart throbbed painfully when she saw The Doctor. Oh, he was identical to her Doctor, the one she'd traveled with for over two years. The Time Lord. This Doctor was very much human, and that was both wonderful and… terrifying. It was new. And if she could only open her heart to him, they would grow old together, a prospect she had never been forced to consider with the other Doctor.

He sensed her presence before she was quite ready to make herself known, and she flinched when he turned around and grinned to see her out of her room. He missed her. The body may have been new, but he had all the memories of the previous Doctor, and with Rose out of sight so often, there was an almost hollow sense of emptiness knowing she was just down the hall but unwilling to see him. "Rose!" he greeted her, resisting the urge to rise to his feet and wrap her in an urgent embrace. He hadn't touched her since their kiss on Bad Wolf Bay. After the old Doctor and Donna had left with the TARDIS he'd tried to take her hand, but she'd stuffed both hands in her pockets and refused to look at him more than absolutely necessary.

She bit the inside of her cheek and fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other before replying with a rather weak, "Hello."

The Doctor's smile faltered. It had been over a day since he'd last seen her, and all he got for his suffering was a hello? He rose but made no movement for her, merely turning to face her more directly. There wasn't any point in asking what was wrong – he knew. He was the wrong Doctor. But what he wouldn't give to be the right one for her… "Is there something you need? Anything at all?" he offered. Food. Company. A snog. Something. Anything to keep her in his presence as long as possible. Anything that would take time enough to convince even a small part of her that he and the old Doctor were one in the same.

"Just, um… I was going to make some lunch," Rose mumbled, staring at a point somewhere beyond The Doctor's right shoulder to avoid looking him in the eye. "I was wondering if you wanted to… to join me." She seemed to be struggling to speak the words and there was a part of her hoping he would refuse, but he grasped at the offer and clung to it, overjoyed that she had invited his presence.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" he bounded to her side and grinned at her, but the gesture was wasted as she still wasn't looking at him. He just wanted to feel her eyes on him. Scrutinizing her almost pleadingly, he noticed something… off about her. Her coloring. She was too pale. And were those beads of sweat on her forehead?

When he reached for her hand, it was more than for just the need to feel her palm against his. She flinched away from his touch, but his hand was against hers long enough for him to register that she was warm… too warm. There was something the matter further than just her discomfort with him. There was something physically wrong with her. Had she come out with the intention to tell him? And, more importantly, why didn't she?

Rose went as quickly as she could into the kitchen on her weak legs and began opening cupboards in pursuit of something that wouldn't make her feel sicker. The Doctor followed her, hands in his pockets as he watched her. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it immediately. She was slower, her countenance more withdrawn even than it had been in the past week. Waiting to regain his full brain capacity was infuriating. If his mind were working at its usual rate, he would have noticed the moment she came into the sitting room.

Rose felt The Doctor's eyes on her the entire time she was perusing cabinets. Nothing sounded appealing. The very thought of food made her feel sick. Biting her bottom lip, she turned to him and met his eye for the first time, however briefly, and asked, "What are you looking at?"

"Oh, nothing," he shrugged, opening a cabinet himself and rifling through cans. His fingers wrapped around a can of soup and he pulled it out. "I was only thinking that if you're having a bit of trouble finding food I could make some of this. Give you a bit of a chance to sit down… talk to me a bit… for a while."

Rose's body tensed. If the first thing he went for was soup, then he knew something was wrong. Even more so, he had suggested she sit down. People only suggested other people sit down if there was something wrong with them. "I'm perfectly capable of finding something for myself, thanks." More to prove herself than anything, she grabbed the first thing her fingers brushed against – bread. She would work with that, then. Pursing her lips as her stomach churned, she went to the stove and turned it on before snatching a flat pan and putting it over the heating metal with a stony expression.

"So," The Doctor began, sidling around the island in the kitchen's center to stand a Rose's side. "What are you making?"

"Grilled cheese. That all right with you?" Rose grumbled resentfully. Why was he hovering? Yet another bad sign. She was regretting her decision to seek him out. How stupid it had been! She should have known he would be able to tell there was something wrong.

"Fine, fine," The Doctor affirmed nonchalantly, trying to deduce whether her irritable outburst was because she was uncomfortable with him or because she was ill. She hadn't been particularly caustic the past few days when he spoke to her, merely dejected, so he supposed the latter was the more veritable reason. Picking up a spoon left lying on the island and twirling it in his fingers, he inquired with as much indifference as he could manage, "So, what have you been doing in your bedroom for the last week?"

Rose clenched her teeth in frustration as she spread butter haphazardly over two pieces of bread, both from the probing question and the pain stabbing incessantly at her stomach. There were several ways she could answer. Crying. Wanting to die. Wishing to fade from this dimension and back into the original Doctor's. But all those answers were terrible, and she didn't really want to leave. Overall, she really just wanted to get over the old Doctor and start her life with this new one, but she didn't know how. "Thinking," she replied at last, and The Doctor was grateful for a response at all, albeit a slightly nebulous one. "Just thinking. There's a lot to think about."

The Doctor sighed to himself, and it went unnoticed by Rose, who was more preoccupied with laying the bread onto the pan and placing a square of cheese over one of the slices than listening to The Doctor. "Yes. Yes, I'd say there is," he muttered, watching Rose's hands intently. They were trembling.

He tried thinking about a great number of things to talk with her about, but nothing in particular came to mind, so instead he watched her trembling hands, and the longer Rose handled a spatula and manipulated the bread, the shakier her hands became.

After a few painful minutes for both of them, The Doctor increasingly wanting to confront Rose and force her to stop exerting herself and Rose determined to soldier on no matter how fatigued she was growing exerting the effort from such a simple task, Rose set the spatula aside and slid the sandwich onto a plate. She offered it to The Doctor at once before beginning the long and grueling process again.

"Thank you," he said quietly, a little guiltily. He didn't want to challenge her outright, but it was almost too awful to watch her wear herself out again with the second sandwich. He nibbled at the crusts of the one she had given him and observed her until he could tell that the way she leaned against the counter was for the purpose of keeping herself upright, because it was a struggle for her to even stand. It was sheer willpower, he guessed, that kept her going until after what seemed like an eternity (and he should know, being part Time Lord and whatnot) the second sandwich had been slid onto a plate and the stove shut off. By that time Rose was breathing too hard for it to be natural and the sweat on her brow was far too abundant to be from merely standing over the stove for ten minutes.

Now Rose could feel that she had a fever. She was too hot, and her body shook with incessant shivers. Beads of sweat coated her brow, but she was still holding onto fragments of hope that The Doctor hadn't noticed and was therefore too wary to wipe them away. Her hip pressed heavily against the countertop to keep herself standing on her trembling legs. The scents that the sandwiches she'd made were wafting off were nauseating.

"You all right, Rose?" The Doctor asked in a final bid to get her to admit there was something very wrong, but she admitted nothing, only nodding her head and reaching for her plate with a grimace.

Her stomach turned and twisted in a sickening array of acrobatics. Willing herself to pick up the sandwich, Rose took the tiniest bite that she could manage without arousing suspicion as to a lack of appetite, and worked around her gag reflex. Her body fought against swallowing, but she forced the mouthful down anyway – with immediate consequences.

The Doctor watched Rose turn a rapid and unsightly shade of green, and discarded his plate at once, reaching towards her with the full intent of revealing his knowledge of her illness and making her go back to bed. "Rose," he said sternly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

No, no she wasn't. Not at all. With a flustered cry, Rose tossed her plate aside onto the counter and rushed out of the kitchen, a hand clamped over her mouth and the other holding her stomach. The Doctor called her name and raced after her, following her path to the bathroom and arriving just in time to see Rose emptying the contents of her stomach into the porcelain basin of the toilet, her single bite of lunch a now bitter, forgotten memory. "Oh, Rose…"

She slumped against the side of the tub, trembling and with tears threatening to fall as they gathered in the corners of her eyes. The acrid taste of bile lingered in the back of her mouth and to make matters worse, The Doctor was standing in the doorway with a look of mingled pity and concern displayed in his handsome features as he stared at her. "Go away," she begged him in a choked voice, burying her face in her hands. "Please just go away. This is humiliating enough already."

"Humiliating?" he repeated in astonishment. Of all the things to worry over, she had chosen that? At least she seemed to be ignoring the fact that he wasn't the proper Doctor for the time being. He moved to her side and lowered himself down next to her, leaning his back against the tub. "You're just sick. There's no shame in that. We saw far worse things than this in all our adventures in the TARDIS."

Rose felt too miserable to even think that this was not the same Doctor she traveled with. She appreciated that he was trying to help, but somehow the comfort only made her feel worse. A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek, and as she hastily wiped it away, The Doctor wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me you were ill?"

"I don't know," Rose mumbled, her cheeks turning pink. It was a vibrant color in comparison to her pallid skin. "I suppose I already felt pathetic enough."

The Doctor sighed, knowing it was no use to try convincing her that the way she had been coping with a major new development in her life wasn't unusual and certainly not pathetic. She was too far gone for that. Instead he brushed a few sweat-soaked strands of hair away from her face and put a hand on her forehead. She arched into his cool touch. The Doctor whistled. "That is quite the fever, that is," he said, a little bit impressed. Even when Rose got sick, she had to get fantastically sick. "How are you holding up?"

"A bit better."

"You're not going to throw up again?"

She shook her head.

"All right, then." He stood up and helped her to her feet, making sure she was all right to walk before he nudged her in the direction of her bedroom. "Back to bed with you. I'll be along in a minute. Now, scoot."

He set off down the hall in the opposite direction, leaving Rose to make her way back to her room and wonder what he meant by he'd be along. He meant he intended to come back to her side? But then, it was him. The man who couldn't resist being there for a person who needed help. Not that she needed help, per say, but of course he would want to take care of her. That was who he was.

Her first course of action was to change out of her jeans and t-shirt into something more suited to the attire of a person with a fever. A tank top and ratty old sweatpants it was. She owned actual pajamas, of course, but she didn't particularly fancy wearing pajama pants with cartoon characters in front of The Doctor. Crawling into bed, she opted for propping herself up against her pillows rather than lying down and burrowing beneath the covers, curious as to what The Doctor would do upon his arrival. The voice in the back of her head that persisted in whispering this Doctor was not her Doctor was buried beneath the onslaught of affection that had come with hearing his tender voice as he reassured her, and feeling his arm around her. She'd missed that a lot more than she cared to openly admit. If this was how it would be between them then she couldn't remain hostile, and any resistance she had left would crumble. A small part of her secretly wanted that.

His arrival was accompanied by three sharp knocks, and she told him it was all right to enter before he came in, carrying a glass of water in one hand and setting it down on her bedside table. Not bothering with so much as a greeting, he whipped a thermometer out of his pocket and stuck it under Rose's tongue before proceeding to put his glasses on and pull the sonic screwdriver from inside his jacket and run it over her body, the blue light glowing at the end.

Rose's eyes widened the minute she saw the familiar device, and she indicated it with a noise of inquiry, as she couldn't speak with the thermometer in her mouth. The Doctor grinned as he pulled the screwdriver back and explained, "It's not his; it's one of the spares. I grabbed one before he left us in this universe. After all, what sort of Doctor would I be without a screwdriver?"

The corners of Rose's lips twitched, and as soon as he'd plucked the thermometer out of her mouth she smiled as she looked at him. He'd even kept a pair of glasses. She hadn't let herself see it before now, but he really was just like the original Doctor.

The Doctor examined the reading on the thermometer first and informed Rose that she had a fever of 39.2 degrees Celsius before looking intently at the screwdriver for a result. It wasn't as easy to read as it was when he was full Time Lord, but he'd been getting the hang of it and it was much easier than it had been a week ago. The first time he'd used it in pursuit of information (the toaster hadn't been working quite right and he had wanted a diagnostic before getting to work sonicking it) he'd been worried he wouldn't be able to interpret the readings it gave at all, but he'd managed it and with continual practice was regaining his old speed reading it. It took him fifty-one seconds this time. "Flu," he finally said, tucking his screwdriver back into his inside pocket. "Ordinary human flu. You should be recovered in a few days."

"Good news, then. I didn't catch some Dalek disease in that last battle," Rose said.

"Couldn't possibly have. The Daleks got rid of sickness long ago. Sterilization is what comes with encasing yourself in a metal shell," The Doctor informed her, pulling a bottle out of his pocket next and shaking out two small white pills. "Antiviral medication," he explained before Rose had the chance to ask, handing them to her along with the glass of water he'd brought. "This world is wonderfully advanced, medically. Nowhere near New Earth's level of expertise, but certainly more advanced than your old world at this time period."

Didn't she know it. After almost two years on this world, she had definitely noticed that there weren't nearly as many tragic deaths from cancer or other diseases (and she had verified they existed on this parallel world), and when she had broken her leg when training with this world's version of Torchwood, it had taken all of two hours for her bone to be set and healed completely.

"Go on now, drink up."

Rose obediently took the pills, drinking the entire glass of water with them. The Doctor nodded his approval and pried the glass away from her fingers before setting it back on her bedside table. "There you go. Those should help."

"Thanks," Rose said. Almost immediately she felt tired, and she wondered whether those pills had any sleeping draught in them. Probably, considering the way it was becoming a struggle to keep her eyes open. She watched The Doctor move a few articles of clothing off a chair and drag it to her bedside before seating himself and removing his glasses at last, laying them on her bedside table next to the empty glass rather than putting them back in his pocket. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to," she said, attempting to be gracious. In all honesty, she was delighted for the attention. Maybe it was just the fever, but she had lost all thoughts of this Doctor being the wrong one. At the moment, he was her Doctor, just as compassionate and thoughtful as always.

"What else would I be doing?" he asked almost in awe, settling himself in the chair. "Besides, it would be downright cruel to leave you alone. In the entire universe, there's only a handful of species that don't take care of their sick or injured. The Atrox and Malum, for example. And I'm no Atrox, thank goodness."

There he went again, talking about alien races Rose had never heard of. Maybe she'd ask about them. When she wasn't so tired…

The Doctor grinned at her and added, "And just between you and me, I rather enjoy this taking care of you bit." A pause, and a sigh. "I've missed you, Rose."

She swallowed hard, tears threatening again. "I… I've missed you, too," she admitted in a whisper. It was so hard to remain awake, but she didn't want to fall asleep just yet. She wanted this for a while longer. What if, when she woke up, things were the same as they had been all week? What if she didn't… love him again when she woke up?

The Doctor stifled a small chuckle when he saw how hard she was fighting sleep. Those pills had been guaranteed to knock her out for a few hours at the least, and there was really no use trying to prevent the inevitable. She was only wearing herself out more. Besides, didn't she understand that sleep was good for humans when they were ill? "Go to sleep, Rose," he commanded gently, silently praying she wouldn't pose an argument.

She didn't. With a soft sigh, she shut her eyes, and The Doctor dared to lean forward and brush his lips against her fevered brow as she drifted off into unconsciousness. Purely on a whim, he rested his fingertips against her temple, shut his eyes, and concentrated very hard on every good moment with her that he could remember, all the happy moments, lingering a bit on the memory of their kiss a week ago. He imagined the memories of those moments flowing through his body and to his fingertips. In his mind he saw a door, and he gave it a mental nudge. It swung open and permitted him access to Rose's subconscious, and he released the memories and allowed them to flow into her dreams.

When he opened his eyes and pulled his hand away, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face as he did so, there was the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

Figured I might post this in two parts. Next chapter should be up in a few days, if I get people telling me they want this continued. Please tell me if you like this! I do this thing primarily for my own entertainment, but if others derive some pleasure out of it, that's great too! So, review!

On a tangent note, I saw a picture last week of David Tennant looking highly condemning with the caption "David Tennant: you should be ashamed by some of the fanfictions you've written about him." I very much hope this isn't one of them!

Anyway, tell me what you thought (like, dislike, in character or out, that sort of thing). Thanks for reading! And, once again, Chapter Two should be out in the next couple of days.