Whether or not he trusts her isn't the question.

The Doctor scowls at Rose. Rose doesn't back down. A brief struggle-of-wills ensues. It is most certainly closer to a glaring contest than a staring one.

"Fine," he says after a moment, stepping back. Hands throw up in a gesture of surrender.

"Really?"

"Yes. Fine. You know your body. I trust your opinion."

Rose exhales in relief. Tension melts from her shoulders. "Thank you."

She retreats to the exam table, to grab her shirt. She pulls it on over her head, and reaches for her jacket too.

"So are we done on Glavon, or—"

Whatever Rose wants to know about Glavon, or, the Doctor never finds out; within seconds he's crossed the room, whipped out the sonic, and grabbed her by the arm. She lets out a sharp Hey!in protest and pulls away from him, but he stops her easily, fingers wrapping around her forearm hard enough to hold, but not hard enough to hurt. He rips off the cotton ball nestled in the inside of her elbow and flips the sonic to the setting he needs, reading the droplets of blood drying on the bandage.

(Medical scan—why didn't he think of it earlier?)

"What the hell?" Rose demands, jerking back.

"A-HA!" the Doctor announces, triumphant. He wags the sonic in Rose's face. "You, Rose Tyler, are very much not all right. Your neurochemicals are misfiring wildly!"

"You said you trusted me," Rose accuses, pulling on her jacket and drawing it close like a protective shield.

"I said I trusted your opinion, but since your brain is clearly impaired, it isn't really your genuine opinion, is it? I mean, look at this—"

He smacks the sonic with his other hand. "Heightened production of dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline, serotonin, norepinephrine, phenylethylamine, testosterone…"

The Doctor trails off, frowning. Testosterone? He knows it's present in human females, but not generally at these levels, and certainly not in response to atropine exposure. And it makes no sense (at all, whatsoever) that she would be producing any of these other chemicals either—if he remembers his human biochemistry correctly, and of course he does, oxytocin and dopamine and serotonin are all the juices in a brain that's happy. In fact, he realizes, human bodies typically only release this cocktail in this quantity under a very, very specific set of conditions, and…

…and…

…and he kissed her hand, and she took off her shirt, and he did just technically explore quite a bit of her northern territory.

"Ah," he says, nonplussed. He removes his spectacles and deposits them in his suit-pocket without looking. He swallows. Loudly. "That's…not at all what I expected."

The two of them stand in silence; if there were crickets in the room, they'd be deafening right now.

(If he's being honest with himself, he can't really be surprised at any of this; this regeneration is a dreadful flirt, especially with Rose, and he's caught her looking at him more than once—he just never gave it too terribly much thought because, well, she's a dreadful flirt too, isn't she? Never mind the age-and-species gap. No point in getting his hopes up—not that he'd admit, even under pain of torture, to ever having such hopes.)

(It's possible she's caught him looking at her more than once as well.)

"Yeah, well," Rose laughs after a moment. "I guess you found me out. Me and my pretty-boy aliens, eh? What are you gonna do?"

The Doctor quirks an eyebrow at her. "I beg your pardon?"

Rose smiles and plays with her necklace, twirling the charm on the chain round and round and round; now that the initial moment has passed, she seems more at ease. "You know. Alien pretty-boys. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em, can't drag 'em back to the TARDIS to satisfy your physical needs." She shrugs. "You said it yourself, me and my pretty boys!"

The Doctor's still stuck on one point. "Why can't you drag me back to the TARDIS?" he asks. "Is something preventing you physically?"

Rose stops playing with her necklace. Now she's really staring at him.

"Or," the Doctor says, as realization dawns like a cloudy grey morning, "Or, you're actually talking about someone else entirely. Like the bloke back on Glavon. Who tried to give you that flower and started this whole mess in the first place."

Of course; he's daft; of course this isn't about him.

He feels very stupid all of a sudden.

"I mean, that makes sense, right?" Rose asks.

"Yes, yes, it does." Why does he feel almost…disappointed?

"Like, I meet the bloke, then you pull me away—erm, because you thought I'd been poisoned, and that was—good job, that. Cos if I had been poisoned, that would have been a good thing to do—but it—it didn't really give me a chance to. You know," Rose rambles a bit. She casts about the medical bay like something in the room will give her inspiration for her next few words.

"Take care of things," she ends up saying.

"Right," the Doctor says. He has a feeling he knows exactly what she means by take care of things, and, rather bizarrely, he's a bit insulted that such an event would have been precipitated by an encounter with some random fellow, some complete stranger, when there are clearly other far-superior candidates about and around.

(Isn't he pretty enough?)

"So, you kind of get it now? Why I couldn't just tell you what was going on?" Rose asks. "It was sort of embarrassing."

"Why would it be? Nothing to be ashamed of, it's all perfectly natural," the Doctor counters, rubbing the back of his neck. "Besides, it isn't as if you can choose how you feel about something."

"Or someone?" Rose continues. She's blinking just a little more than usual as she looks at him, eyelashes fluttering like a nervous bird's wings.

"Or someone," the Doctor agrees. "An alien pretty-boy someone," he adds under his breath.

Rose grins up at him, trapping her tongue between her teeth, her usual confidence creeping back in now that the danger of vulnerability has passed. "You know," she says, "if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were maybe a little bit jealous after all."

"There's that presumption of yours again. Frankly, I don't know where it comes from."

"Not even a little?"

"Not even a little."

"Even though alien pretty-boy's presence had such a profound and lasting effect on me?" Rose teases, over-dramatizing the last few words.

"Nope," the Doctor lies.

Rose nods. "Good. Glad that's sorted."

Is he going mad, or is she the one who looks a bit disappointed now?

"All right, then," Rose says, clapping her hands together. "Now that that's done and over with, where are we off to next?" She pushes past him, toward the door. "Medieval times? Thirty-eighth century Neptune?" She spins around and issues him a saucy grin. "That Vhigian crystal palace you're always blathering on about?"

The Doctor watches her with mounting suspicion. Isn't the blathering usually his job?

"Are the pools really full of liquid crystals, or are they just bubbly?" Rose prattles, reaching behind her for the button that will open the medical bay doors. "Cos I don't really fancy swimming in dodgy pool water—I can do that back on the Estate, thanks."

The Doctor has to work to hide his grin. She's spent too much time around him, he thinks. She's picking up on his habits. Specifically, she's picked up on his habit of distraction. And the more she talks, the more he figures things out.

He's not the only liar here.

"So?" Rose ventures. She points to the door. "Are we gonna go, or…?"

"Actually, Rose," the Doctor says, "I'm not entirely unconvinced that something isn't wrong with you."

"Really?"

"Really. Because you mentioned that your—what did you call him? Your 'alien pretty-boy'?—had a lasting effect on you," he recites, slowly strolling toward her, "but the fact of the matter is, you didn't start exhibiting any symptoms until we got into this room."

Rose worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "Oh?"

"Oh yes," the Doctor replies softly. "And, as your doctor, it would be irresponsible of me to let you go without exploring every avenue of possibility. I'd be neglecting my duty as a professional."

He's standing very close to her now. "What if it turns out you're reacting to something else entirely?"

"I'm not." (He knows she's lying now; she twists her hands together when she lies, and right now, they may as well be tied in a bow.)

"Then you won't have anything to worry about, will you? Unless you know something you're not telling me."

Rose taps her foot impatiently. She heaves an impatient sigh, air exiting loudly through her nostrils. "Fine," she says.

The Doctor smiles at her. It's a smug smile, and they both know it.

"Fine," Rose says again, sharper this time. And then she starts unzipping her jacket.

The Doctor's smile fades away. "What are you—?"

"Might as well make it an official appointment, right?" Rose asks. She peels off her jacket and tosses it to the floor. She toes off her shoes as well.

"Have you got any paper gowns or anything?" she continues, grabbing her shirt by the hem and dragging it over her head once again. "Seems like a professional should have that sort of thing—or shall I sit in my unmentionables?"

"That isn't necessary," the Doctor tells her, careful not to look anywhere but her face—not that he minds, really, that she's stripping in front of him, only he doesn't want to be rude.

(Well, that isn't exactly true either, he does want to be rude, very rude, but this isn't about him, this is about her. Her, lying to him, and him catching her in it.

It's got absolutely nothing to do with the warmth he's feeling under his collar right now.)

"Oh no, it's totally necessary," Rose argues; the sarcasm in her voice is impossible to miss. She's unzipping her jeans now. "Because what if there's something you missed? I could have symptoms that you didn't notice because I still had my clothes on." Hips shimmy and her trousers fall to the floor, pooling around her ankles. "Like spots on my skin or something, or maybe a lump here or there. As you mentioned, it would irresponsible of you not to check.

"After all," she intones, kicking her jeans off to the side, "as a doctor, surely it doesn't bother you to see your patient's body. Does it?"

She's standing in the medical bay in nothing but her bra and a pair of pants. 'Bother' isn't exactly the word he'd use.

"Of course not," the Doctor says. "I am the very picture of professional detachment. Impeccable bedside manner."

"Good," Rose breathes.

"Great," he agrees.

"Fantastic!" Rose finishes.

Neither of them moves. Rose's chest rises and falls. The Doctor tries not to let his eyes be drawn by the movement.

Rose points to the exam table. "Shall we?"

She's calling his bluff, he knows. She thinks he'll become flustered and flabbergasted at the prospect of dealing with her in such personal circumstances, thinks he'll drum up an excuse to leave any moment now. It would have worked quite well with his ninth self. She is certainly committed to this bit, he'll give her that. But then again, so is he.

"Yes, let's!" he says, just a little too cheerful and a little too loud.

Rose blinks in surprise, but she doesn't argue. She heads back for the exam table (the Doctor tries to avert his eyes from her backside, but then again, this isan examination, and that israther a fascinating mole on her left cheek), but when she turns around and places the heels of her palms on the table, preparing to hoist herself up, the Doctor stops her with his hands on her torso.

"Please, allow me," he says, thinking she'll surely blush and refuse.

She does neither. "Please, be my guest," she replies.

He's not going to lie; her flesh is warm and pleasantly pliant under his fingers. Warm and pleasant enough that after he lifts her onto the table, he can hardly be blamed if his hands linger, sliding from her ribcage down to her waist.

The Doctor drops his hands. This…might be a bit more than he bargained for, he realizes just a little too late.

"So?" Rose asks. Her fingertips beat out a rhythm on her thighs, the only outward sign of any nervousness she might be feeling right now. "What's next?"

"I imagine the first order of business would be to check on that core temperature."

"Excellent. Got a thermometer?"

"Don't need one."

The Doctor brushes her hair over her shoulder, her hair silky on his hand, his fingertips grazing her throat. He presses the back of his fingers against her neck, just under her jaw, where she sometimes dabs a bit of perfume in the mornings. He wonders if she knows that she's applying the perfume to a pulse point when she does that; that sometimes, just after a sprint away from danger, or when she's very close, her pulse sends her scent radiating out like a beacon. It's always very distracting. Much like it is now, lightly dusting the air with a smell vaguely reminiscent of apples and something quintessentially human and her.

He can feel her heating up under his touch; he doesn't know why he didn't notice the correlation before. 38.17 degrees, 38.2…

"Diagnosis?" she asks.

"Very warm," he tells her, "potentially feverish, but likely nothing to be too concerned about, on its own."

He withdraws his hand. "Now, your breathing, on the other hand—I can tell even from here that it's a bit irregular."

Rose's tongue darts out to wet her lips. "What do you mean, you can tell 'even from here'?"

"I mean I can hear your breaths leaving you at uneven intervals," the Doctor informs her. He picks up the stethoscope. "Also, I'm not blind," he mutters under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I'm going to need you to sit up straight, please," he says instead of answering her question, plugging in the stethoscope's eartips.

The Doctor presses the bell to her chest, just above the clavicle, and she jumps in surprise.

"Sorry," Rose laughs. Her voice reverberates in her chest, through the stethoscope. "It's cold."

"No, I'm sorry," the Doctor cringes. "I should have remembered. My mistake."

He listens to the rhythm of her breaths fading in and out, soft fuzzy noises leaving her chest and traveling through the tubing into his ears. He moves the bell lower, and lower still, smooth medal gliding over soft skin. Her breaths are becoming just a hair shallower, just a tic faster; he can feel the subtle shift in her sternum under his hand. He adjusts his hold on the bell and when his fingers ghost over her, he can just feel gooseflesh prickling beneath her skin. Her breaths increase from 24 to 30 per minute.

Alien pretty-boy, indeed. The Doctor may have regenerated relatively recently, but he wasn't born yesterday.

"And how are the lungs?" Rose inquires. She's avoiding his eyes, looking straight ahead instead.

"Perhaps a bit overexcited. But no inflammation in the pleura, so that's always a good sign." Really, if he was doing this properly, he'd have to keep going—6 anterior pairs, 7 posterior, according to his time with UNIT—but he rather feels that would disrupt this…this…whatever is happening right now.
He shifts the bell down the sternal border, hovering over her tricuspid valve, just above the lacy edge of her bra.

The Doctor hears her heart rate increase, the gentle thump-thump thump-thump speeding to a quiet crescendo. The Doctor is very glad their situations are not reversed and she can't hear his heartsbeat; he can generally regulate such things as he likes, but his heartsrate is pounding just a little harder than usual right now, almost like his system can hear hers and is responding in kind.

"I'm listening to your heart now," he explains. "Measuring rate, type, and pattern of sound."

Rose's gaze locks with his. Her eyes are going dark again, pupils widening by a fraction of a fraction that probably no one else would notice. "And?"

And it would take no effort, really, no effort at all, to just slip his fingers down, just a little bit. That would really get her heart rate going.

(And his.)

He hesitates.

What is he doing?

The Doctor has no idea where this is all going to lead—well no, actually, he has a pretty good idea, and that's just impossible. Not only is she human, and unthinkably younger than him, but she trusts him, and here he is, blatantly taking advantage of that trust. Pushing her to see how far she'll let him. Playing with her just to satisfy his own ridiculous ego. Something familiar wells up inside him, pressing inside his chest and his throat and making his stomach clench, and it takes him a moment to remember what it is—his old friend, guilt.

He can't do this. Not to Rose.

Besides—he's a Time Lord, not some low Gallifreyan who can't control his base animal instincts.

"Normal," he announces. He removes the bell from her chest and unplugs the eartips from his ears. "All normal."