"Rose, I think I need medical assistance."
His glasses were crooked. She'd put money on him not having slept, either - he was still wearing the pants from yesterday's suit, and a rumpled Beatles' t-shirt she was sure had, until this morning, been more or less a permanent resident of the corner in their bedroom. His brow was furrowed, and like a small child, he thrust his index finger at her for inspection.
"Doctor, that's a paper cut. Happens when you spend too much time flippin' around in books."
"Really? What kind of inefficient dermatological - oh."
Rose grinned at him. "There. Kissed it better."
Later that evening, Rose heard a crash, and then the Doctor calling her from deep inside the library. She took off running, her mobile on the ready just in case the Doctor really did need need medical assistance this time - only to find him climbing his way out of a neck-high pile of books. He appeared to have topped a bookshelf.
"Rose," he said, his eyes wide and far too innocent. "I think I have a papercut."
"Where's it hurt?"
He smirked. "Everywhere."