His bed was spinning. He was sure of it. The Doctor felt the covers swirl and tug in the waves of nausea he was experiencing. Oh, he felt so sick. Hammers pounding- no, entire worlds pounding down upon his head, worms crawling in his insides, and a horrible bitter taste that was the prelude to vomiting every time.

As he tried to raise his hand to his head carefully, slowly as not to make the spinning bed realize he was awake, a hand grasped his own and pulled it back down to his side. That hand swept the numerous strands of hair plastered to his head with his own sweat away from his eyes and the gentle fingers touched his cheek.

"Do that again..."

"What? I didn't quite catch that, sorry."

"What you just did," the Doctor repeated, hoping there was some sort of telepathy he could communicate with so he wouldn't have to open his mouth again. Every time he did so, he risked disgracing himself. "With your hand."

"This?"

The fingers trailed against his cheek again, so beautifully cool and comforting. He sighed in relief and let himself take a few deeper sips of air, wishing the infernal nausea would cease. It had to stop soon, it just had to. There was no possible way this could go on and leave him the same person he was before this nightmare started.

"How did I- How did?"

"How did what happen, Doctor?"

He cracked his eyes open to see Rose's face, her brilliant eyes looking back at him with concern. Her hands had never felt colder, and for that he was glad, because she pressed her palm to his forehead, his pain subsiding a bit. The look he gave her must have said it all, because her mouth formed a small 'o' of understanding and she repositioned herself on the chair she was sitting on beside the bed.

"You had a bit too much to drink last night, Doctor. I don't know if you remember anything-"

The Doctor tried to shake his head but, in doing so, he made himself feel even worse. What was in his head? Rocks?

"Well, it was just the two of us and I mentioned to you it was my birthday a few weeks ago."

"I remember that."

"Okay, then you'll remember the birthday cake?"

Rose's birthday cake. Yes, he remembered; it was a pretty little sugar cake with white frosting he had seen in the bakery last time they had visited her hometown. He had put the small pink and purple roses on it himself and even found a few plain candles to light should she want them.

"We had brought out a bottle of champange and you surprised me with my cake. I blew out the candles, you poured us both a glass, and then we sat back and talked."

"About what?"

"Not important right now," Rose muttered, and the Doctor could swear she was burning up. "What matters is that, after we finished the champange, you brought out the harder stuff."

"Then why aren't you nearly dying alongside me right now if we had that much to drink?"

"Believe me, I'm not feeling well, either, but you had more than I did. Much, much more."

"Agh."

"Yes, indeed."

Rose watched the Doctor squirm in his covers for several moments before he stopped and looked positively green. She gave him the empty bowl, but it didn't stay empty for long. His insides throughly purged, he sat back in the bed, clutching his head. He was feeling a bit better, but only a bit.

"I guess that's the last birthday of mine we are celebrating here on the Tardis, huh?"

"No, Rose, you'll have many more birthdays here," the Doctor mumbled, settling back into the covers and heaving as big of a sigh as he dared. "There just won't be as much alcohol. Whatever pursuaded me to do such a thing? I didn't say anything too embarrassing, right?"

Rose didn't answer, but stood up and, with a final stroke on the Doctor's cheek, announced she was leaving.

"Where are you going?"

"Remember, I'm not feeling well, either."

As she started to leave, the Doctor opened his eyes again and stopped her.

"How do I get the bed to stop spinning?"

After a moment of careful thought, Rose answered, "Put your foot down. It'll anchor you."