A/N: Rose/Ten fluff is so hard to make just fluff, because there's always this angsty undertone... Poor Ten. Poor Rose. Anyway, this little plot bunny would not go away, and maybe it's been done before, but it's just too much fun. Enjoy!

Words: 1137
Characters: Ten, Rose
Time: Season 2 ish
Genre: Friendship

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to whoever owns Doctor Who. Not me.

"Rose! Rose? You humans have to sleep so much, you're absolutely impossible – Rose?"

Her door was cracked, but all he heard from her was a disgruntled mumble. Peeking inside, he caught sight of a mop of blond hair, but that was all he could see other than a pile of blankets and pillows. Rose usually bounced out of bed and waited eagerly by his side while they decided, together, on a destination. She was beautiful without beauty sleep, chipper and bright before a coffee. So the Doctor realized immediately that something was wrong. He didn't bother waiting for an invitation to enter.

"Are you all right, Rose?" he said, hurrying to her bedside. "What's wrong? How do you feel? All your limbs intact?"

Another mumble. A hand emerged and yanked the blankets even higher up over her head, and he watched the shape beneath them shiver. "I think I'm sick," she managed at last, her voice weak and tired and followed by a scratchy cough. "Not gonna make it outta this bed today, Doctor."

Cautiously he peeled away the covers so he could see her face. He had to pry each of her fingers individually from their vice grip around the blanket. "Rose? Still alive down there?"

"Quit it," she pouted. "I'm not gonna leave."

Her face was extremely pale, and her hair was so damp with sweat that it was sticking to her forehead. Despite that, she was shivering, and her eyes were barely open, with faint gray half-circles beneath them. She still managed a wicked half-lidded glare, though. But the Doctor didn't let that faze him. Frantically he racked his brains for something he could do to help, because everything in him screamed protest to the sight of Rose looking so sad and pitiful.

He bent over her, pressing his forehead to hers and concentrating. He thought he heard her catch her breath – their faces were so close that he could feel each inhale and exhale tickling his skin. His pulse quickened inexplicably (well, not quite inexplicably, if he was honest with himself, which he never was) and it very much distracted him from the task at hand. Rapidly he forced himself to focus.

"Internal temperature of about 38 degrees Celsius, or 101 degrees Fahrenheit, or 311.4 degrees Kelvin – on the Rachatorios scale, that's - "

"Doctor."

"Right, sorry." He pulled back, frowning in concern. "And your cheeks are flushed too."

Rose glanced away quickly, a sudden cough overtaking her for a moment. Her cheeks were a little less pink when she turned back toward him, but it was still concerning. The Doctor rested his palms against the sides of her neck. "Slightly swollen lymphnodes," he muttered, thinking fast. "How's your head?"

"Throbbing," she said. "Since when are you a doctor Doctor?"

"Well, since about – five minutes ago."

Her lips twitched, and she gave him a weak swat. "Great help you are. Go away, or I'll get you sick too, breathing all over you."

"I'm a Time Lord. I don't 'get sick.' My cells are like nanomachines, brilliantly equipped to ward off any disease of any species from any planet in any viral or bacterial form."

Rose watched him bemusedly, then groaned and closed her eyes. "I don't even have the energy to tell you to shut up."

He smiled at the return of even the tiniest bit of her familiar attitude. But still, the sickness made her look so small and vulnerable. How was it that she was still shaking, bundled up in so many blankets and propped up by so many pillows? On a whim he brushed the sweaty hair from her face and tucked it neatly behind her ears; his hands lingered on her pink cheeks of their own accord. She tried to smile first, resting her hand over his. The Doctor knew he was grinning ear to ear, charmed, and hoping that some of his happiness might help her feel a little better, too.

"So, Doctor?" she said. "What's it I've got? Am I gonna die?"

"Garden variety rhinovirus. Common cold, though it had nothing to do with the surrounding temperature, so I don't know where you lot got the name. All you need is to keep warm to sweat out the fever and drink lots and lots of liquids."

"I know that. You sound like my mum."

"Yeah, but your mum probably just turns on the telly and lets you watch it for hours while she holds her breath to bring you soup. Me, though…" The Doctor lifted the covers and slid in next to her, shooting her a winning smile. "I can't get sick. And my body temperature is naturally higher than a human's – I'll warm you up! And I think you'll find channel TARDIS a little bit more interesting than flipping through the telly on a weekday - "

Surreptitiously he fiddled with the sonic screwdriver in his jacket pocket, and above their heads the roof seemed to dissolve atom by atom. A glorious swath of starlight appeared first, then a cloud of colored dust, a few gems of planets and asteroids. Beautiful as it was, the Doctor was far more enchanted by the awe on his Rose's face. Finally her eyes were wide and delighted, sparkling as they reflected the sky above. Her arms snaked round one of his, and she rested her head heavily on his shoulder. Her shivering had stopped at last.

"How long are you gonna stay with me?" she asked, peering up at him.

"Forever," he replied, filled with joy when her answering smile was broad and true. "Well. I hope we won't be in here forever. Just till you get better."

"I don't know. Wouldn't be so bad, being stuck here with you."

She smiled. Her eyes were fixed on him now, not the stars. They were clear as ever, and warm, too. Completely without uncertainty or guile.

Did she mean – no. The Doctor had to stop those thoughts right where they started. Slipping into bed with her had been so easy it was almost frightening, and even frail and sick, she just felt so right curled up against his side like that, like it was meant to be, like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Like it was something they did every night.

He allowed himself a quick kiss to her forehead, but that was it. She looked drowsy enough, regardless, and soon he'd need to get up and get her some water or juice; humans really were fairly helpless when even a tiny little thing went wrong inside their bodies. But he didn't mind. For now, he was content to hold her, to keep her warm, to watch her fall asleep with a soft smile on her lips.