It was one of the few absolute certainties of life on the TARDIS: there was no such thing as sleeping in.

No matter how taxing and turbulent the chaos of yesterday, no matter what injury or personal loss had been sustained, no matter what tragic injustices had come to pass, there was still no reprieve. The wake-up call was inescapable. It was universal fact and scientific law. Every day, after six meticulously allotted hours of sleep – allotted with precision down to the nanosecond, of course – a pinstriped hurricane came down upon her bedroom. Usually with winds no less than three-hundred miles an hour.

If by some miracle the aggravating gale-force bellow of "Rise and shine, Martha Jones!" failed to rouse her (which to date it never had, given that the hideously cheerful shout had approximately the same shock value as the unforeseen impact of a nuclear missile), other measures were employed. Lights were flicked on. Bedsheets were dragged off. There was impatient sighing, pacing, and prodding to contend with – and, naturally, a brisk hailstorm of insults on the crude inadequacy of the human sleep cycle – until she finally obliged the hurricane by lugging herself out from the warmth of the sheets and glaring into the full brunt of that stupidly gorgeous smile it always wore in the mornings. Upon the first death threat she issued, that was when it decided to march her off to breakfast in the galley and – with a calibre of enthusiasm frankly indecent at such an ungodly hour – bombard her with all its eager ideas for their day's adventure. Ordinarily she could fend the hurricane off long enough to squeeze in a shower and a new set of clothes. But before her hair had fully dried, it would be back in her personal space, grumbling about how much time she wasted getting ready and reminding her that the universe was waiting.

The tumultuous nature of their travels meant a whirlwind of constant motion. The tumultuous nature of the Doctor meant that any respite from this whirlwind was excruciatingly brief.

So when Martha Jones stirred into consciousness feeling suspiciously well-rested, and was not greeted with the typical commotion – nor the sight of a tall, ominously Doctor-shaped shadow falling over her bed – it was a cause for immediate concern.

She abruptly sat upright in bed, wearing a frown. Her bedroom was dark. Not only was it dark: it was empty and quiet and utterly undisturbed. Mild panic was quick to flare to life, and her gaze swivelled around the room. "Doctor?"

Nothing.

Something was wrong.

She kicked free of the tangles of her sheets and climbed from her bed, hurrying barefoot out into the corridor. The wall lights – set to mimic a 24-hour Earth day – had almost achieved full brightness, bathing the rounded coral passageway in light, glowing with a soft yellow orange. Figuratively speaking, it must have been around eleven. Thus even if he had for some reason neglected to wake her, she should've still been able to hear him up and about in other parts of the ship. Whether it was rambling idly to himself, or admonishing the TARDIS for its latest act of brazen insubordination, or belting out a shameless and egregiously off-key rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody under the console – he was physically incapable of lasting five minutes without making noise.

Yet all was silent.

Preparing herself for the worst, she started down the corridor towards the console room. But she'd made it less than ten steps away from her bedroom when the low and indistinct sound of someone coughing suddenly cut through the silence.

She froze, startled, and turned to stare in puzzlement at the door closest to her left. The nondescript metal door looked back at her, the embodiment of cool, docile, inanimate innocence.

Martha frowned, not falling for its guise, and moved closer to listen. There was silence for five seconds, ten; then came more coughing.

A throat was painstakingly cleared.

She gave the door a quick rap of her knuckles, unwilling to open the door without express permission. "Hello?" she called softly, hoping she wouldn't startle him. "Doctor?"

In lieu of an answer, the terrible sound of gagging erupted from inside the room.

Her response was instinctive. Discretion forgotten, Martha reached forward and hit the electronic panel beside the door without a second thought. It wasn't locked, and with a muted clicking and clanking of cogs it glided back into the wall.

The warm corals of the corridor abruptly gave way into gloom-steeped bedroom. It was dusty and Spartan, filled with dark, dour mahogany and not much else. Personal effects littered the perimeter of the space – a rickety desk suffocating beneath spare parts – an overstuffed bookcase sagging under the weight of a thousand scuffed-up paperbacks – a pile of dirty clothes, kicked halfway into a shadowy cupboard. But the only clear focus of the room was in its centre: where solemnly, sturdily, like something plucked out of a history museum, loomed one large and disastrously messy four-poster bed.

A large and disastrously messy four-poster bed which, in the centre of its gnarled sheets, held one very pale, very miserable-looking Time Lord.

Suddenly, things made a lot more sense.

The Doctor was apparently in his pyjamas, sitting with his head buried in a bin. This image on its face was transparently wrong on an inconceivable number of levels – so off-putting that it made Martha freeze in the doorway for a few seconds, processing the unnaturalness of it. As she hesitated, trying to acclimatise to the sight of one of the universe's most formidable and august minds sitting in his bed in pastel striped jammies, she slowly became aware of the bitter scent tinging the air. That awareness led her to realise that there were several noises echoing hollowly from the inside of the plastic bin he clutched, all which seemed to be noises of the retching, splattering, suffering variety.

The auditory upheaval sharply reminded her why she'd even intruded in the first place, and it was the only motivation she required to cross the threshold.

The door made a big, noisy show of clicking and clanking itself shut behind her as Martha went to the foot of his bed. There was a brief awkward second as she stood there, unnoticed, her own stomach churning in empathy; then the heaving intensified, and she worked up the mettle to move to his side. She navigated a suspicion stain darkening the carpet with a wrinkled nose and tentatively perched herself up on the edge of the high mattress beside him.

It was somewhat disorientating to be in such a private space of his, but after a moment, sympathy overcame her indecision. She risked extending a cautious hand to pat his back. Feverish heat bled generously through the thin fabric against her palm. There was no acknowledgement of her touch – just more muffled, convulsive gagging. And as many times as Martha had dreamt about being in his bed…well, this wasn't exactly what she'd envisioned.

He dragged his face out of the bin with a groan, struggling for breath, face twisted into disgust. She could see his arms trembling as he tried to locate the floor to place the bin. The fresh contents of the wastebasket sloshed alarmingly. Martha was swift to rescue it from his hands before there was a spill and deposited it inside the halo of balled-up, crumply tissue from where it had clearly been lifted.

An elastic creak of protest sounded from the mattress as the Doctor collapsed back into his bed. Sour-faced and spread-eagled, he groaned pitifully again, then weakly summoned the strength to drag a pillow over his head. The twinge of sympathy Martha felt grew a bit more acute. She would've gone in for a hug if he hadn't reeked of sick – but as he very much did, she settled for giving his bicep a consoling little pat instead.

The pillow slid down to reveal groggy, squinted eyes, rimmed with red as they peered out at her.

"Wha…?" Hazy, tired confusion registered in the muffled voice. "Martha?"

"Hiya," she said lightly. "I thought you said you couldn't catch the Anderian flu, mister."

He more or less just grunted at her, a response which Martha – having professional experience in being vaguely grunted at, usually whenever he was repairing something intricate under the console and couldn't be bothered to use syllables – managed to decode as a gruff dismissal of, "I can't."

"Obviously you can," she replied.

Having acknowledged, processed, and evidently made the decision to entirely disregard her abnormal presence in his bed, the Doctor turned his back on her and stretched himself out like a sleepy cat. One long leg ended up sprawled over her lap in the motion. "Go away," was what the next grunt translated into.

"If you can't get flu," she pushed his leg off her lap and onto the bed, "how do you explain all this, then?"

A sweep of her hand encompassed his physical condition, the bin, and the stain on the floor. His head turned a fraction, one lone brown eye materialising to follow her gesture. It narrowed accordingly. "Explain what?"

She gave him a look. "You just sicked up, Doctor. You're in bed. You look terrible." The last observation was apparently offensive enough to spur him to lift his head fully out of the pillow and focus both eyes on her, even if it was just to scowl. "This isn't exactly normal. Especially for you."

"Well, it's nothing to do with the Anderians," came the sharp retort. His leg stubbornly put itself back into the comfort of her lap. "Don't be daft. I've got a Time Lord immune system, I don't have…flu."

The word was spat out as though it were something unspeakably vile. But without the buffer of the pillow, she could now hear that his voice had been transformed over the course of the night. It had all the trappings of illness: hoarse, croaky, and rasping, with a complimentary and unexpected side dish of completely, adorably nasal.

It took substantial self-restraint not to laugh outright at him.

"Are you sure about that?" asked Martha, biting her lip to suppress a smile.

His foot gave a half-hearted kick, nudging her stomach. Whether the faint kick was a reflexive expression of frustration or a failed attempt to shut her up, she wasn't certain. "Of course I'm sure. Besides, Anderia was what, a month ago?"

"Three days ago," she clarified.

"Same thing." He turned his attention to his pillow and drove his fist into it in sharp, hard jabs: either attempting to pummel it into peak fluffiness or using it as an unfortunate outlet for his irritation, Martha couldn't tell which.

"Three days is a standard incubation period," she pointed out. He clobbered the pillow again. "Maybe your immune system wasn't quite as infallible as you thought."

She could only assume that the pillow had stopped acquiescing to his wishes, as a moment later its crushed carcass went sailing through the air in a fit of pique, narrowly missing her head. "We already had this talk," he snapped. "Primitive virus, highly superior cellular composition, Time Lord immune system. I physically cannot get flu. It's simple biology, Martha, I thought you were a medical student."

She ignored this last barb – and she didn't think he'd appreciate it much if she pointed out that it looked like the 'primitive' virus had his Time Lord immune system licked. "I remember what you said," she replied, calm. "But the Anderians told you it was the most virulent strain of flu they'd seen in the last forty-thousand years. Strong enough to take on even your 'superior' immune system, they said."

"The Anderians are thick," he hurled venomously, and struggled to sit up. "I'm fine."

Which perhaps would have been a rather more convincing assertion, had he not followed it by ducking his face into the crook of his elbow and bellowing out a sneeze.

She watched, unimpressed, as he collapsed back on the bed again; the exertion of sneezing depleting his energy and making him abandon his frail bid to sit upright. He looked utterly pitiful as he curled up – as best as someone that tall could manage tocurl up, anyway – and buried half his face in the sheet, groaning.

"I think you should have listened to the Anderians," she said.

He spared her one disdainful, sullen glance of his left eye. "Well, you're thick too."

In another scenario she might have swatted him for the remark, but she could only give another tired sigh as she took in the cranky, huddled visage of distress that was currently the Doctor. He radiated misery: shivering faintly, the underside of his nose red and irritated, his cheeks flushed with fever. He was only in the early throes of the ten-day flu, but even now he looked awful. In his current state he'd definitely not handle any swatting too well.

"Maybe next time you'll be reasonable and get yourself vaccinated as well," she said gently, "instead of just me."

"I didn't need a vaccination. You did. Human antibodies are pathetic." He reached back and groped blindly for his pillow; then, with a frustrated sigh, seemed to remember he'd pitched it across the room, and had to settle for a stray cushion. "The pollen on Eldredi 9 would kill you in six and a half seconds."

Martha rolled her eyes. "Be that as it may, right now I'm not the sick one. You are."

He glared at her with all the forbidding turbulence of the Oncoming Storm – though the effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that he was curled up in his bed in pastel striped pyjamas, shivering and hugging a cushion. "I'll have you know that Time Lords do not get sick."

In the interest of not causing further injury to his dignity, she refrained from reminding him of the foul-smelling sick currently marring the carpet, and the bin, and the bottom left portion of his shirt. "All right, how about we just go to the infirmary and make sure?"

"I am not going to the infirmary."

"Why not? Because you know you have flu, and don't want it up on a screen so I can say 'I told you so'?"

He sneezed explosively once more – Martha flinched and recoiled – then wilted into the rumpled bedsheets, breath shallow. "No, because I don't need to, that's why. Didn't I tell you to go away?"

"First off, would it be possible for you to cover your mouth when you do that?"

"No," he said crossly.

She wiped off her wet arm with a corner of his bedsheet, grimacing. "What makes you think you don't need to go to the infirmary?"

"I've better things to do."

"Like what?" she challenged.

And she'd caught him there. "Well…" He visibly strained to think of something, mind clearly churning a bit slower than normal. "I thought we might go to…Kur-ha. Never took you there, 'cause we got a bit side-tracked," side-tracked, of course, being his new term to encompass three months of her labouring as his maid in 1913, a period she thought he was frankly all too keen to gloss over, "but we could still go ice-skating on the mineral lakes."

"Doctor, I'm sorry, but you don't look like you'd make it to the console room in one piece, let alone a mineral lake." The single-eye scowl re-emerged. "I don't think you're in any state to leave the TARDIS."

"I'll go wherever I like," he said, and aimed another very feeble glare at her. "I don't have flu."

She folded her arms. He was beginning to grate on her nerves. The Doctor was unfathomably difficult at the best of times (in good health), and she'd known him long enough to know that, when reason and common sense failed, there was only one way to handle him.

"Right," she said simply, shrugging. "Well, if there's nothing wrong with you, you certainly don't need me here." Martha scooted away from him and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "Kur-ha sounds good. I'll see you in the console room?"

He scrambled to sit up, and finally managed it this time, dropping his cushion in his haste. Two overly warm, sweaty hands clutched her forearm. "Wait," he demanded – and looked completely mad as he did so, hair sticking up wildly on the left side of his head and flattened on the right. "Wait. Martha. Don't go."

"You're fine. You haven't got flu. Why shouldn't I?"

"Because…" He glanced down and sniffled. "Well, because it's possible that I may have…miscalculated."

"Miscalculated what, exactly?"

"We-ell." He hesitated on the monosyllable, attention suddenly captured by a fleck of lint on his bedsheet. "There could be a small, teensy, really quite spectacularly infinitesimal possibility that I might be…affected."

"Affected by?"

"Uh…"

She tilted an eyebrow. "Not the Anderian flu, surely?"

"No," he insisted, forcefully. "Just…I, ah, I'm not exactly a hundred per cent. Could be anything, really. Probably old age."

"You're certain it's not flu, then?"

"No, no, no." He shook his head, swiping at his nose with a shirtsleeve. "Time Lord. Can't get flu. Keep up."

Her eyes rolled once more as the peak of her exasperation neared. "Do you admit that you're ill, at least?"

The lint intrigued him again.

"Might be," he said noncommittally.

"'Might?'"

"It's possible."

At this point Martha was prepared to tell him off for being ridiculous and drag him feet-first to the infirmary; but then she saw the bourgeoning pout on his face as he slouched back down into the duvet and hugged his cushion again, and took pity on him. The pout had always had an annoying way of getting to her; and the pout in league with the shivering was an unstoppable force.

Mollified a bit, she reached forward and gently laid the back of her hand against his clammy forehead. An almost human warmth – blistering in comparison to his usual cool body temperature – met her skin. "Aw. You're burning up."

He grumbled a bit and made an unenthusiastic attempt to bat her hand away. "I'm freezing."

"Freezing?"

The Doctor flinched, apparently realising the symptom he'd just allowed to slip. "Not freezing," he amended hastily, firmly – as if she couldn't see his tremors for herself. "Just…chilly. A bit. There must be something wrong with the TARDIS." A suspicious glance flicked up at her. "You haven't been mucking with the thermostat, have you?"

"I didn't even know the TARDIS had a thermostat, so no. You definitely aren't cold, I can tell you that. Just feels that way. Probably chills."

"I don't have chills," he declared. "And I do not want you fussing over me."

Which was utterly laughable, of course. If he so much as stubbed his toe, she was promptly notified and solicited for maximum sympathy – yet, if he'd broken a finger or sustained any similar serious injury, he'd keep it from her for weeks. It was being ordered about that he hated (sit down, leave that alone, get off the bloody ladder, you're in no condition to be running for your life)not fussing. "Oh, hush. You love it when people fuss over you."

And because he couldn't deny it without the denial sounding blatantly like a fib, he just pulled his cushion up over his face again. "I'm cold," he complained into it, as if that settled the debate.

Sighing, Martha shuffled across his bed and fetched the bunched-up duvet from where it had obviously been kicked, shaking out the tangles. He was indeed sweating, but she knew he could withstand extreme changes in internal temperature, so she wasn't too concerned about his fever; and there was no sense in him being uncomfortable. She returned to his side, and pulled the straightened-out coverlet up over him, tucking it around his shoulders.

A definite soft noise of content emanated from the pillow, and he settled into the new warmth.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Better," he reported from the safety of his cushion in a small, congested voice. "Thanks."

Because his hair was now the only thing exposed, she reached down and ruffled it affectionately – something that would earn her a solid tongue-lashing if he weren't so out of it, but he now accepted wordlessly. She wasn't even sure he even noticed. "Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?"

"No."

The muffled reply was quick and resolute. She tilted her head. "You must really be feeling awful. I don't think you've ever turned down tea before."

"It's not that I don't want it. But…" The cushion shifted minutely, revealing that his face had gone ashen, and not insignificantly green. "Something went wrong earlier."

She frowned, worried for a moment. "What went wrong?"

He answered gravely: "The gravity."

"The…gravity?"

"When I woke up, it turned on me."

Martha schooled her features into polite concern. "The gravity turned on you?" she checked.

"Yes." The Doctor shivered and curled further into the duvet, as if warding off the grim memory. "It must have malfunctioned, but…everything started coming up."

"Oh, no. Is that what happened?" she asked, pointing to the waste bin and stained carpet, trying very hard to maintain a straight face.

"Yeah," he said bleakly, sniffling.

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll take care of that for you, all right?"

"Sorry."

"Oh, it's not your fault," she said (even though it was entirely his fault for refusing a vaccination). She moved off the bed, careful not to disturb his sheets, and put her hands on her hips as she regarded the stain on the floor. "Have you got any cleaning fluid?"

"In the loo," he sniffled. His eyes trailed over to a door on the other side of the room. "Under the sink, maybe. Haven't used it in two-hundred years."

With this direction, Martha went to the door and pulled it open. His bathroom was almost an exact replica of hers, clean lines and white tile. She checked under the sink and extracted the blue-labelled spray bottle she found. Arming herself with a roll of dusty paper towels she returned to the room. She reached for the bedside lamp and found the dial at its base set to the dimmest setting. When she turned it up, it obligingly spat out a much sunnier glow, spilling light onto the stain. She put her hands on her hips, wrinkled her nose, and assessed the puddle.

A head of tufted brown hair poked up at the brightened light, and the Doctor's gaze followed her. "Martha?"

"Yes?" she asked, kneeling down on the floor and calculating the best way to go about scrubbing the carpet. She had cleaned up far too many stains like this in the A&E, but that had largely been on tiled floors.

"How," he asked slowly, suddenly looking a bit puzzled by her presence, the reaction quite belated, "did you get in here?"

"I heard you coughing from the corridor." She tipped out a small amount of cleaning fluid onto the floor, and – praying it wasn't going to burn through the carpet, or more importantly, her palm – began to wipe up the stain with one hand, pinching her nose with the other. "Just a coincidence. I didn't even think you had a bedroom, to be honest. Thought you were in the console room at first."

"You really walked that far to find me?" He sounded reluctantly impressed and, maybe she was imagining it, but also slightly touched. "I…" He poked at the blanket. "I hope you weren't lost for too long."

She spared him a puzzled glance. "Your room is only a few doors away from mine, Doctor."

A furrow appeared between his eyebrows while he processed this. "Is it?"

"Yeah."

The touched expression faded.

"I am nine-hundred years old," he said harshly, raising his voice. "I didn't ask for your help and I don't need it."

This stung a bit more than she was expecting. It probably didn't say good things about their relationship that she was so accustomed to having her feelings abruptly trampled she didn't even flinch anymore. "Fine." She lobbed the paper towels in the bin. "You can clean up your own vomit next time."

"What?" He blinked at her, looking bewildered. "I wasn't talking to you, Martha, obviously."

Then he rolled and turned his back on her again – muttering something vague about meddling transdimensional cows.

Frowning in momentary puzzlement, then shaking it off – figuring it had something to do with the TARDIS and she'd only confuse herself trying to understand – she stood up from the damp carpet and returned the cleaning fluid to its rightful location. She treated her hands to a thorough washing before returning to her spot beside the shivering lump of duvet.

"I've cleaned it," she said, settling on the edge of the bed.

He smothered a rattling cough into his cushion. "Thanks."

The word was stuttered, mostly because his shivers had become so pronounced that his teeth clacked every other moment. Despite the fact that he was still sweating, he somehow did a very convincing job of appearing like he was stranded in the middle of the tundra. "Do you need another blanket?"

"No. You just went away," he mumbled, and didn't sound too pleased about it. "But I'm fine now."

It took her a moment to connect the dots, but soon she realised what he was saying. Now she knew why he had clung to her arm the first time she'd threatened to leave: he'd been covertly using her body heat as a radiator.

Martha narrowed her eyes, looking down at him. He was very indiscreetly inching nearer to her. She shook her head at the irony. He wanted to be close to her – and that certainly made a change from the status quo. The bitterer part of her had half a mind to get up and leave him to shiver; but she decided that this was not the time to be resentful over unrequited feelings.

Since she'd left, he had made a frail attempt to prop himself up halfway in his bed, and she scooted close. Her elbow bumped against his bicep, hip brushing hip.

He stopped inching, and gave what was definitely hum of approval as he released his cushion.

She briefly wished he was a bit less endearing, so she could be fully annoyed with him. At least he seemed to be shivering less dramatically now that she was so close (now that he could leech her heat properly, a cynical little voice muttered in the back of her mind).

"Okay," she prompted. "So, we've established that tea's out."

His eyes fluttered up to focus up on her. "Until the gravity stabilises."

"How about some water?" she suggested. "That seems safe enough."

"No."

"Why not water?"

She saw his Adam's apple bob in a reflexive gulp. "Wouldn't want to…tempt it."

Martha raised an eyebrow. "I'm not exactly sure how you can tempt gravity, but you're going to have to drink something soon. You need to replenish your fluids."

He frowned up at her. "Don't fuss. I know. I will. Not now."

"What do you plan to do now?"

There was a pause.

"I'm a bit tired," he confessed, voice sheepish, picking at a loose thread on his blanket.

"Well," she gave his arm a pat, "you get your rest, then. I'll go and entertain myself in the library, all right? You can shout if you need me."

But before she could even begin to get up, his hands were clutching at her elbow once more.

"Martha, I thought you said you wouldn't go."

She frowned. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You said," he repeated slowly, giving her a look that suggested he thought she was being especially dense, "that you wouldn't go."

"What? Are you saying that you want me to sit here and…?" She shook her head in bewilderment. "You want me to watch you sleep?"

The Doctor didn't seem at all bothered by this notion. "You don't have to watch," he offered. "You can sleep, too. Humans love sleep."

"I'm not tired, and–"

"You look tired."

Anderian flu or no Anderian flu, that earned him a solid swat on his arm.

"Ow," he bleated.

"– and there's no bloody way I'm going to sleep with you."

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she processed the sentence. He didn't seem to notice her sudden flush or the double entendre. "What's wrong with me?" he squawked instead.

She shifted away from him, putting a nice safe two inches between them as she tried to force away her blush. "You're infected."

"You're vaccinated!" he protested, following her and eradicating her two inches of distance.

She scooted once more. This time it was three inches, and a warning glare. "Vaccinations aren't fool-proof, Doctor. Just because you've got the bubonic plague vaccine doesn't mean you go and cuddle flea-ridden rats."

"I don't have the bubonic plague," he complained. "And I'm not a rat."

"And I'm not going to be cuddling you."

"I didn't say we should cuddle." Then he seemed to consider it. "But if you're…"

"No, I'm not offering," she cut him off, narrowing her eyes, "and don't you dare ask."

"But I don't have fleas!"

"You love reminding me how weak and feeble my immune system is, don't you? I'm not going to lie here and inhale your germs!"

"Martha…"

"No," she said firmly, and emphasised her point with another inch of space. "No way."

"I'm cold." He reached out again and grabbed her wrist this time. "Don't leave."

"If you're that cold, I can go and get you a electric blanket. There is no reason why I have to stay."

Forget looking like someone had kicked his puppy – he looked as if he were the puppy, and she'd just booted him clear across the room. "Martha."

"No."

"Please?"

"No," she repeated – although it had to be said that she was slightly less firm this go round. "You smell like sick."

And of course, now the pout commenced in full force.

"Please?"

She could count the number of times she'd heard him say 'please' to her on one hand, which made the deployment of the plaintive little word – twice, no less – devastatingly effective. She tried to glower at him for another moment.

He pouted.

Martha groaned in frustration.

"Fine," she gritted out from between clenched teeth. "I'll stay." His eyes started to light up, and she held up a finger, stopping him short. "But I am going to stay here," she jabbed her finger at the mattress, "and you are going to stay there."

The Doctor's gaze fell to the space between them – and his brows instantly furrowed, as if it were an entire canyon instead of ten centimetres. "But…" His nose scrunched in confusion. "How are we going to cuddle?"

She blushed furiously. "We're not cuddling. What's gotten into you?"

"A deep and relentless chill," he whinged.

"Stop being dramatic. Stay over there."

"But Martha," arrived the inevitable protest.

"That's it," she interrupted. "Either you agree to that, or I'm headed to the library."

He attempted to pout her into submission for another few seconds – but once he saw that she was not going to be moved on her compromise, he sighed and resignedly pulled the duvet up higher, covering his nose and mouth. "Fine."

"You're going to stay over there?" she checked.

"Yes," he grumbled, like a chastised child.

"All right, then."

Silence settled between them as she fell back and folded her arms tightly, staring up at his ceiling. She was still in just her oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts – shorts which, now that she thought about it, exposed a lot more leg than she was actually comfortable with him seeing, especially in his bed. However, he'd kick up another fuss if she tried to go back to her bedroom for a pair of trousers, so she settled for pulling up a bit of the duvet he wasn't using and covering herself from the waist down.

"Are you cold?" he asked, sniffling.

"No," she said, feeling her cheeks warm up. "I'm fine."

A pause. "Here you go." He offered up the excess duvet that he was hoarding on his side. "I don't want you to be cold, too."

And if he'd stop being so infuriatingly sweet, then she could be properly irritated with him for guilting her into staying. "Thank you," she sighed. "But you need it more than I do."

"Okay," he accepted simply, pulling the bedsheets back to his side and huddling into them.

Martha smiled reluctantly, and before she could trouble herself with all of the repercussions her actions might have, she reached out and ran her hand through his hair. By the time she saw him on most days it had been washed and had some sort of product in and was more or less an award-winning masterpiece. Right now, it was dishevelled and haphazard and delightfully fluffy from sleep. It was a good job the Daleks couldn't see him like this – bed head made the Doctor seem infinitely less intimidating.

Her smile twitched as leant into her touch. The treatment was tolerated for nearly a minute before he finally commented.

"Martha?" His voice was drowsy and faraway. "Are you petting me?"

"Yes. Go to sleep."

"Okay," he mumbled again.

It was less than two minutes later that his snuffling breathing evened out, and she finally withdrew her hand from his hair, watching his slack features. He looked younger when he was asleep. Not that she didn't already know that, all the times she'd (literally) stumbled upon him catnapping in their flat in 1969 – but it never ceased to amaze her, how sleep took the weight of nine-hundred years out of his features.

Sighing softly, she turned onto her side, facing away from him. She'd planned to sneak out right after he fell asleep, but…well, his bed really was quite comfortable. It was impossible to be sure whether it was the soft mattress or the pillows or even rhythmic rumble of his breathing lulling her, but something was doing the job and doing it well.

As her eyelids began to feel a bit heavy, she told herself she'd only rest for thirty minutes.

It was some four hours later that Martha came to with a violent start.