DISCLAIMER: I'VE GOT MY FINGERS CROSSED, BUT FOR NOW I STILL DON'T OWN DOCTOR WHO.

A/N So apparently when I say tomorrow, I really mean three weeks. I'm really sorry, I was going to post this sooner, but I kind of got banned from the computer again. I finished writing as soon as I was allowed back on. Anyway, this one is Hero by Enrique Iglesias. It's different than I planned, but I actually like it better. It's a little bit jumpy-ish I think, but I still like it a lot. I'm hoping to have another chapter up on Monday, but I can't make any promises.

Hero

Rose curled into the corner of the couch, her feet tucked neatly beside her and a well worn book nestled in her hand. The fireplace was glowing brightly even though there was no need on account of the Tardis maintaining a perfect temperature. She had the old fashioned record player going across the room to enhance the mood. All in all, it was a perfect evening for relaxing and enjoying the book she had found on the Doctor's personal shelf. Or at least it was a perfect evening until the Doctor's pitiful cries sounded through the walls.

Rose rolled her eyes and opened up her book, more than happy to ignore the Doctor. Five minutes later, when his cries still had not subsided she found it was a much less happy circumstance. With a resigned sigh, she snapped the book shut and abandoned her comfortable spot. The Tardis hummed sympathetically, but that was hardly helpful to anyone. Rose trudged down the hall, muttering any number of insults under her breath. She thrust the Doctor's door open and her jaw dropped at the sight before her.

On a bed of twisted, scattered sheets, the Doctor lay sniffling sadly. His shirt was wrinkled almost beyond recognition, the buttons not in their proper holes, and some not in the holes at all. He hadn't even attempted to locate his suit pants and instead wore the ruffled shirt over a pair of blue pajama bottoms decorated with little glowing Tardises. His hair was not the casual sticky-uppy look she was used to. Rather, it looked like someone had brushed it the wrong way and left it in a large fluffy mess. His eyes were red and streaming to match his nose. In other words, he was one very sick time lord.

Rose had prepared an angry speech, but her glare softened into amused compassion. She smiled and pushed through the pile of ties on the floor to sit beside the Doctor. She ran a gentle hand through his furry mane of hair, smoothing it out until it was passably good looking. He groaned pathetically, but it sounded less genuine than just a few minutes before. She smiled to herself, pleased that even her simple presence made him feel better.

"Rose," he moaned, his voice stuffy. "I think I have a cold."

She laughed. "I think you're right."

She rested a hand on his forehead, grimacing at the sweltering heat of his skin. "I think you also have a fever."

"Oh, perfect," he muttered, and flopped back on his pillows. "I haven't been sick in... well I guess I got regeneration sickness, but that doesn't count."

"If that doesn't count, what does?" Rose asked with a smile.

He shrugged. "This."

The Doctor settled deeper into the pillows, his eyes shut tightly. His face was crinkled with discomfort and Rose's heart went out to him. Poor, poor Doctor. It was rare sight to see him so vulnerable. Rose lightly caressed his hot skin, a little surprised when his hand came up to press hers against his cheek.

"That feels good," He murmured.

The Doctor turned his head just slightly to press a kiss into her palm. If that surprised Rose, it was nothing to the surprise she got, when he tugged her down until she was laying by his side. She froze when his arms wrapped around her, but as he nuzzled her hair, she gradually relaxed. If he could only hold her close when he was deathly ill, then she would take sickness any day.

Thinking along the same lines the Doctor said, "The only nice thing about being sick is, I can do something like this and pass it off as delirium when I get better."

"There's a flaw in your plan," Rose said. "by telling me this, I know perfectly well that's its a premeditated, conscious decision rather than delirium."

He laughed into her hair, sending tingles into the tips of her toes. "I'd hardly say it was premeditated. That's where the sickness part comes in; it makes me terribly impulsive."

"No one ever said impulsiveness was bad," Rose whispered quietly.

His eyes opened briefly to lock on hers, and she could see the pain this single moment of closeness was bringing him. Because he could never allow them to have another moment like this, what should have been pure joy turned bittersweet. And that was what impulsiveness cost him, cost them. One step forward, two steps back.

"I'm sorry," Rose said.

"No, I'm sorry. This isn't fair of me," he said, his voice laced with anger at himself. "Tomorrow, this will be gone, and you'll probably have gotten sick too."

"Isn't it worth it though?" she asked, looking at him earnestly. "Better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all, right?"

The Doctor sighed, sadly and rested his forehead against hers. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel each shuddering breath he took, each unsteady beat of his hearts. Rose's cheeks were wet, though whether her own tears or the Doctor's she wasn't sure. Probably both.

"I can love from a distance," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I have to Rose, you know why."

"But what if I can't," she answered. "I can't be as strong as you."

The Doctor sighed again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Maybe that's just it. Maybe I'm the weak one and you're the strong one. Maybe I'm just being a coward, running away from everything."

Silence followed his words. If Rose said yes, she was the strong one, the Doctor might give in, but then he would be hurt in the long run. If she said no, he would push her away, and they would both suffer silently, but get over it eventually. Or would they? Maybe they were all ready so in love it would actually hurt worse to keep pretending. Time passed slowly as Rose poured over her thoughts. Beside her the Doctor was getting restless, just waiting for her to speak.

"Say something," he said. "Tell me what to do. Because I don't know anymore. I used to think I knew what was best, but lately I'm not so sure."

"I think..." she paused. "I think you should go to sleep. Neither of us are going to think very clearly if you're sick as a dog. In the morning, if you're better, then we'll figure it out, I promise."

"And tonight?"

Rose stilled, not quite sure what to do. It would probably be best if she left, but snuggled in his arms as she was, she couldn't bring herself to go.

"Tonight, I'm staying here," she said. "Someone's got to take care of you after all."

The Doctor smiled, tugging a hand through her hair.. "Thanks."

She kissed his hand, then his shoulder. "Your welcome."

Safe in the Doctor's arms, Rose felt herself falling into sleep, even though he was the one who was sick and really should have been sleeping. It was funny; she was taking care of him, but she felt as if he were really the one taking care of her. Just as she was fading into blackness, she felt the Doctor's lips brush against her ear as he whispered softly.

"You're my hero." Dimly, Rose realized he thought she was asleep and he was admitting that she was the strong one, that it was indeed much better to use the time they had. Whether, he stood by that decision in the morning, she would have to see, but for now it was enough. The very last thing she knew before she succumbed to sleep was the Doctor whispering one last thing.

"I love you, Rose."