She really was tired, but Rose found that she couldn't fall asleep completely. She'd doze, but then she'd realize that she was still awake, that she hadn't fully entered that restful state, and that knowledge left her even more drained.

She sighed, rolling over onto her side in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. She still felt achy, and the tightness in her neck was creeping up into her skull. It was really only a vague irritation, though, and maybe she was just imagining it. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that her mind was playing tricks on her. Her skin felt itchy, too, particularly her lower back. As soon as that sensation made its way into her awareness, her shoulders and legs began to itch, too.

Instead of giving in and scratching, Rose lay still. After a few minutes the sensations faded, leaving her with just the headache and fatigue. She closed her eyes again. Maybe this time sleep really would claim her.

He'd put all the wires back where they belonged and spent some time running a soft cloth over the console, removing all traces of oil. The ship was in perfect working order; there was nothing else to be done.

The Doctor glanced at one of the clocks. It was 2:45 in the afternoon, London time. When had Rose gone to her room? Was she still sleeping? Surely it had been at least two hours. She was probably feeling refreshed by now, all hints of her earlier malaise gone. Now all she'd be concerned about was hunger, because he realized that they had skipped lunch entirely.

He walked to the kitchen and prepared a pot of herbal tea. While it steeped, he cut up some cheese along with an apple and a melon. He arranged them rather neatly on a plate then added half a dozen melba toasts. That should suffice for a snack; later they could pop into a bistro for some bouillabaisse or stop at a boardwalk for fish and chips. He'd let her pick.

The Time Lord put the teapot, two cups, and the plate of food on a tray and returned to the corridor. He was grinning as he approached Rose's room. It wasn't often that he did something like this for her; usually she was the one to provide a drink or a bite for him. So this would be a nice little surprise for her.

He balanced the tray in one hand then tapped at her door. "Rose? You awake? I've brought tea."

"Mmn," was the mumbled response. "Tea?"

"Yep. And snacks, too."

"Wow, I must be dreamin'," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

He took that as an invitation and entered her room. She was sitting up in bed, her hair mussed and her tee shirt rumpled. He set the tray on her dresser.

"Feeling better?" he asked, pouring the tea.

"Yeah, think so."

"Have you been sleeping this entire time?" His tone wasn't really accusatory; at least he didn't intend for it to be.

"On an' off. Mostly off."

He turned to her, holding a cup in his hand. It took him a moment to notice the light flush coloring her cheeks. She reached for the tea, but he placed it on her night table before she could take it. He pressed his palm over her brow.

"You've still got a fever," he told her, a hint of concern returning to chafe at him.

"'S probably just from bein' too warm under this big, heavy duvet," she replied.

"That wouldn't increase your body temperature by more than half a degree, and yours is up by one point six."

She pulled back a little, clearly signaling him to remove his hand. He complied, but his eyes moved down to watch the rise and fall of her chest. Respiration appeared normal. He reached for her wrist to feel her pulse.

"What're you doin'?" she asked, obviously taken aback by the small action.

"Checking your pulse. What's it look like?"

"You don't need to do that," she protested, drawing her arm away from his gentle grasp. "I'm fine. Really."

"Well," he conceded, "your pulse and respiration seem normal, but the fever indicates that something's going on. Anything hurt?" His eyes moved over her slowly.

"Doctor," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, "you're fussin'."

"I am not," he protested.

"Yeah, you are." She offered him a small smile and reached for his hand. "It's sweet, but it's the last thing I need."

"But Rose, if you're ill—"

"'M not. Just a little under the weather's all. Cuppa tea'll make everything all right." She reached for the mug.

He watched her hand. It looked steadier than it had in the Console Room, and he supposed that was a good sign. She took a sip and nodded.

"'S good."

He brought the plate to her, and she nibbled at a piece of toast and cheese and ate a slice of apple. She didn't appear to have much of an appetite, however, and that concerned him just a little.

"Have some more," he encouraged, offering her a lovely layered toast replete with cheese and fruit.

She shook her head. "No thanks."

"Rose, you have to eat—"

She arched an eyebrow at him warningly. "Fussin'."

"Am not—"

"Mum's always tryin' to get me to eat when I'm sick. You're actin' just like her."

Now that truly was a cause for concern. "I am not!" he countered.

"Yeah, you are. But you can redeem yourself if you leave right now."

He'd seated himself beside her on the bed, but now he stood. "You sure there's nothing else I can get you? And I'm not fussing! I just want to know if there's anything you need. How about a glass of water? Staying hydrated's important when you're running a fever—"

There was that eyebrow vaguely threatening him again. He took the hint and backed toward the door.

"I'll be in the Console Room," he told her, gathering up the dishes.

"I'm sure I'll be up soon," she replied.

He nodded and stepped out into the corridor.

"Doctor!" Rose called.

He poked his head back through the doorway.

"Thanks for the tea."

"Any time, Rose."

He left her to rest, trying not to dwell upon reasons that her body would create a fever. Such thoughts were entirely too close to fussing—weren't they?

To be continued…