Fragile

Rose can't imagine why she thought today would be any different.

On the one hand, she's wrapped up in the Doctor's arms, so there's that. On the other, there's a puncture wound in her side that's making her hands shake and her eyes go a little bit foggy around the edges.

The Doctor gets them into the abandoned crew quarters, a little roughly in her opinion. He doesn't put her down, not until he's sure they're safe, so she clings tightly to the medical kit as he fumbles with the sonic screwdriver to seal the lock. When he's done, he gently lowers her onto the desk and drags a rolling chair across to sit in front of her.

Rose's hands are cold and uncooperative, and she's starting to feel a little like she might throw up everything. Her eyes swim and she feels herself slumping to the side. Her body feels the change in direction and automatically rights itself, which, she reckons, is one of the worst possible ways to not pass out.

"Careful." The Doctor has a hand on each shoulder to help her scoot backwards until she is pressed up against the wall behind her.

"Now we know why this place is empty." Rose tries for a smile but isn't sure she quite manages. He smiles back.

His eyes flick down to where she's holding the bloody rag to her side. The Doctor shrugs off his jacket and rolls to another desk to open up the med kit. He pulls out a small bottle of pills, antiseptic wipes, cotton swaps and a suture kit. He rolls back to her, his trainers propped awkwardly on the legs of the chair.

He's unbuttoning his cuffs and tucking the sleeves up, like Rose has seen doctors do in old time movies, and slips on his glasses. "How are you feeling?"

"On a scale of 1 to 10?" The Doctor looks at her confusedly.

"What good would that do us?"

"It's what they ask you in the hospital. There's a chart with little faces an' everything." She waves her hand as if that will somehow make it clearer.

"That doesn't seem like nearly wide enough of a range to catalog the full spectrum of pain. I mean, where would a splinter fall? What about stubbing your toe? Soap in your eye? On the same scale as laser burns, radiation poisoning and death by boiling? That's ridiculous."

"Yeah? How would you measure it then? Light years? Neutrons? Kelvin?" The Doctor raises an eyebrow.

"You're just naming things you've heard of on the telly." He's concentrating on threading the needle when he answers. "By things I've experienced, of course."

"Alright," Rose thinks about all the serious and/or life threatening injuries she's gotten over the last few months and tries to compare them to now. It's generally something she avoids, surely because the number is way higher than she should be comfortable with. "More than that time the Morrock bit me but less than the time I was thrown into the Junkta pit."

He nods and squeezes her knee gently. Maybe her abstract scale would have been better after all. Nevermind, he thinks. Time to get to work.

"This is going to hurt at first. These," He holds up the thick damp gauze, "are antiseptic numbing wipes. I'm going to clean the wound and then, once the analgesic starts working, sew you up for now to stop the bleeding. Can you take these?" He hands her two pills. She opens her hand below his and he drops them into her awaiting palm. She doesn't immediately close it, instead staring at the iridescent blue shells.

"Painkillers?" He nods and reaches for the fabric at her side.

"It's still going to hurt but we'll need to start moving when the sun goes down."

"Don't suppose you have a bottle of water?" He slides back to the other desk to search all of his pockets. What he pulls out is a dark amber bottle that's half full. He shakes it dubiously before he turns around to offer it to her.

"Yeah, no, I'm not drinking whatever that is." If the Doctor was questioning it, Rose feels she's got a valid concern.

"It's Hummingbee Nectar. Shelf-life of 500 years."

"You're just making these things up, aren't you? Betcha can't even remember when you picked it up."

"I know it was less than 500 years ago. Give or take a century. Point is, it's still good and you haven't got any other options."

"Can't be any..."

"Rose Tyler, don't you dare finish that sentence."

"Probably right." She downs the pills and the nectar and the next few hours are a soft, unpleasant blur.

As soon as the sun begins to disappear, the Doctor wakes her. Rose is sore, shivering and ready to get back to the TARDIS. They creep quietly through the building, the Doctor ahead of her, squeezing her hand tightly as he leads them through the corridors.

By the time they reach the exit, it's nearly night.

Rose leans into his side to whisper. "You sure they can't see us?

"No, I wouldn't say that." The Doctor answers distractedly as he scans the surrounding area for any sign of the creatures.

"But you said we had a better chance if we waited for nightfall!" Her voice is a little bit hysterical, staring at his profile incredulously.

"Shhh!" He puts his finger to her lips and Rose sincerely hopes he can see her glare in this light. "Because you were bleeding and these things thrive in the sun. When it sets, their blood temperature drops, slowing them down. And, lucky for us, their eyesight is rubbish in the dark. We've at least got a chance to make it to the TARDIS before they catch on."

"Bloody brilliant plan that is."

"Do you have a better one?"

"Yes! Stop following beacons across the universe!"

"That's more advice than anything else." Before she can decide whether to smack him, the Doctor turns to her fully, his eyes her critically. Cautiously, he slides his hand against her side, checking the bleeding and bandaging. His eyes flick up to hers and no amount of deflection can hide his worry. "Can you run?"

And because he needs her too, because there's nothing else to do, she plasters on a small smile and squeezes his hand. "It's what we do best."

The smile that breaks out across the Doctor's face is one million percent worth feeling like her knees are going to give out any minute now. They just have to get to the TARDIS and then everything will be fine. Assembled hordes of Genghis Khan and all that. She peeks out from their hiding place behind half of a stone wall. Not that far.

They can do this.

She can do this.

The Doctor tightens his grip already vice like grip. "Ready?"

They make it. Just barely. Loud thuds echo against the hull of the as the beasts throw themselves against the ship. The whole effect is sickening, like the crash of riotous waves at sea. Rose sways on her feet. Her knees buckle but instead of hitting the floor, she's floating in comforting warmth.

"I've got you." He whispers it into her hair, taking liberties that, on any other day, would have been wholly unacceptable. It doesn't stop him from squeezing her close and wrapping himself around her for just a few moments.

"Oh good." Rose mumbles as she leans her head on his shoulder. "'Cause I'd never let you live that down." The Doctor lets out a huff of laughter as he carries her to the infirmary.

When he's finished and Rose is safe and sound, the Doctor wipes his hands on a sanitizing rag, everything just a little bit unsteady. His hands shake minutely, so slight that she can't possibly see it. But he can feel it, a physical manifestation of the fear and uncertainty bearing down on him each time Rose is injured.

She's all patched up now, almost brand new which is a silly saying because he doesn't want her brand new or new at all. He wants to keep his same Rose. Never wants to think about ever having to replace her.

She stirs, eyelids fluttering open as the sedatives wear off. He smiles at her tiredly and she smiles back. There are words on the tip of his tongue for the feelings in his hearts right now but they won't form a coherent sentence so he strings together words he thinks mean just as much.

"You are an amazing creature, Rose Tyler."

She props herself up and, when she doesn't feel debilitating pain, swings her legs over the side of the bed. Glancing a hand through her tangled her, she looks at him from under playful eyelashes. "Do you say that to all the ladies?"

He reaches for the scanner and runs it across her side. It's completely unnecessary.

"No."

"Just the pretty ones?" He shuts it off and rests it on the table beside them.

"No."

"Just the blonde ones."

"No." The Doctor shakes his head as he smooths the hair away from her face. He brushes his hand over her side, once, twice, and then once more until he's satisfied that she's okay. He's done, but instead of removing his hand, he uses it to pull her closer. She rests her forehead against his chest and sighs. His hand is still in her hair when he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

"No, just you."