Archive of Our Own

Travelling with the Doctor didn't often have you regretting your choices in footwear. You're a sensible person; when you first began your adventures with him, you'd started off in comfortable sneakers and sandals. Now, you take after your interdimensional travelling companion and run about in a tough, sensible pair of boots.

So why had you, today of all days, with the TARDIS floor tilting at a sixty-degree angle, decided to wear heels?

"Hang on!" the Doctor shouts. He grabs desperately at a group of levers on the console. His black bowtie hangs loose around his neck, fancy tuxedo coat swinging with the swaying motion of the ship. "This maneuver's gonna be a tricky one!"

"You don't say!" you shout back, your elbows hooked precariously around one of the railings around the console. One of your heeled feet dangles through the railing and off of the console platform. The TARDIS gives another tremendous shudder, and your heel slips off your dangling foot, landing with a thump underneath the console. Great, you think glumly, I'll have to pick that up later when the TARDIS isn't actively crashing.

A bespectacled man struggles to his feet next to you. His own immaculately tailored suit is a mess from all the chaos, shiny pinstriped fabric absolutely wrinkled and rumpled. Four wide eyes stare at you helplessly from behind segmented glasses. His name is Galdron, you remember. "Are you absolutely sure you know what he's doing?" he asks, over the din.

"Isn't this a time machine?" his companion asks. They're hanging on for dear life onto the railing too, their glittery robe draped formless over their scaly shoulders — that's Nymbriel. "Can't we just — I don't know — time travel to after the crash?"

Right. Aliens in fancy black-tie outfits. Just an hour ago, you'd been on the Odon Interplanetary Cruise, enjoying a lovely arrangement by the Feryqui Philharmonic Orchestra, sipping on Lobarian sparkling champagne — a rare peaceful trip for you and the Doctor where you're not running for your lives for once. Well, it was peaceful, up until a group of salvage bandits had raided the ship and damaged its hyperdrive core. Radiation started leaking throughout the ship, which meant everyone had to evacuate to their escape pods — unless you had a ship of your own parked in the vehicle bay.

Lucky for you, you had the TARDIS. Not so lucky for Galdron and Nymbriel, who didn't manage to get on the admittedly very few escape pods. So you'd hiked up your nice dress up to your knees, grabbed the both of them, and herded them into the TARDIS.

Cut to now. The Doctor twirls through the turbulence with a whoop, moving rapidly from one section of the console to another. The smile stretching across his gleeful face is huge, and despite the very clear and present danger you're in, you find yourself grinning too. It's one of the many things you love about the Doctor — around him, you forget about needing a safety net. Just one look at his ecstatic smile in the face of imminent danger, and somehow you stop worrying.

And yes, best to get that out of the way quickly. Nearly one-thousand-year-old space alien from the lost planet of the Time Lords, and you're in love with him. That's not the most important thing right now. The TARDIS turning and tumbling all over the corridors of the Odon cruise ship probably takes higher priority. Probably.

"Not how it works!" you yell in reply. The whole room tilts sideways a couple more degrees, and you readjust your grip on the railing. The insides of your elbows are getting sweaty. What are they called again? The Doctor had mentioned them once on a trip to the New New York Hospital… "Unless you want to find yourself phased through the middle of a shipwreck!"

"Correctamundo!" the Doctor cries. He dances over to where you are, pushing a couple of buttons and slamming a lever down, leaning backward to flash you a smile. Impossibly, you smile back. "The Odon's engines are — were, given the state of things — running on the extra-fancy stuff you need for FTL travel. The radiation leaking through the cruise ship is making it impossible to get a lock on the Vortex. So I'm getting us out manually! But until then — really do hang on this time!"

The entire console room shakes violently. Your elbows tremble, your hold on the railing slips, and with a cry, you fall —

An arm reaches out to wind around your waist before your body can slam into the TARDIS console. The Doctor pulls you to his side with a grunt of effort, glancing to you with a shaky grin.

"Gotcha," he breathes. "Didn't I tell you to hang on?"

You blink up at him, astonished. Time, for a moment, seems to warp and slow. He's not usually this close. You can feel his heartbeats thundering against your back in double, no, quadruple time. He smells like orange and honey and some other sweet thing — is he wearing cologne? Is that a thing that he does? Or does he just smell like that?

And another thing you notice — the Doctor is really, really warm. Warmer than normal. Which is strange, but nice and comforting, actually, given the situation at hand.

"Yeah, don't go on about it," you stutter, when your voice comes back to you. You sound a little strangled. You choose to ignore that. "What do we do now?"

We, not you, not me, us. "Great question!" The Doctor smiles, kindly, the kind you get when you know he's proud of you. Your chest goes all melty at the sight. His arm tightens around your waist and he nods his chin over to a set of levers on the hexagonal console panel in front of you, arranged in a line. "See those levers? When I give the signal, pull them in this specific order, alright? Red-yellow-grey-black-black! Got it?"

You brace yourself against the console. "What signal?"

"You won't miss it!"

The Doctor cranks a handle upwards — the lights beside it light up in order, one, two, three, four, five… he groans as he pushes it to a stop, just before the last two lights can turn on. The TARDIS's humming intensifies, growing louder and louder, and he looks up at you with a satisfied smile. His eyes are wide with the thrill, a little manic, and… red around the edges?

You don't have much time to think about it before the TARDIS heaves one tremendous lurch. In that instant, the Doctor yanks the handle all the way around, the final two lights flash to life, and he bellows, "Now!"

Red-yellow-grey-black-black! You reach out and slam the levers down in that order — and suddenly, you're weightless. The TARDIS's walls blur, the whole room rotates on its axis, and the spinning motion is really very disorienting — your hands tighten around the last black lever for some extra support. You hear Nymbriel scream at the top of their lungs. In the corner of your eye, Galdron wraps his arms around one of the chairs nestled by the outer computer panels. But throughout the chaos, the Doctor's arm is still anchored around you.

You're in the safest place in the universe, there in his arms. You know that. He's not letting go for anything.

So your thudding heart stills as the TARDIS does. Its frenzied motion begins to slacken, the room swaying into stillness like a ship gently buoyed by the waves into calmer waters. Its humming grows softer, winding down from an insistent drone to gentle ambience, giving way to silence from all of you onboard.

There's quiet, for a little bit. The world narrows down to the Doctor's warmth against you, his arm hooked securely around your waist, his stuttering breathing as he calms down from the rush of piloting the TARDIS. He looks down at you with a breathless grin.

"Job well done," he says softly. He pulls you in closer ever so slightly to press his lips gently to your temple. They leave a scorching brand there. "Thank you."

"Yeah, I thought so," you squeak. "You too."

The Doctor unwraps his arm from your body — you're a little disappointed at the loss of contact, but only a little, you promise — and zips off to the opposite side of the console, grabbing its attached screen and swinging it over to him. "Check on our other passengers, will you?"

Your knees are a little wobbly, but you manage to hobble your way over to where Galdron is hugging the back of the chair. His eyes are screwed shut, his glasses askew, and he's mumbling what sounds like a prayer to himself under his breath. "Oh heavenly Seer above, keep me — us, keep us, safe from harm, protect us from all manner of evil —"

"Galdron?" You lay a hand on his shoulder. "You can open your eyes now."

He opens his eyes with a shriek. Each of his four eyes blink from top left to bottom right before meeting yours. "We haven't died?"

"No, we haven't," you say, gesturing to the Doctor. He glances up with a quick wave before returning to furiously pressing buttons. "We're out of the Odon now, I think. Drifting. You're safe."

Galdron heaves a heavy sigh, his whole body melting into the chair. "Thank Toctis. And thank you, Doctor, for getting us away from there."

"Don't thank me just yet!" the Doctor says, squinting at the screen. He slaps it and it flickers, its display casting moving lights over his pale face. Hang on… pale? The Doctor's no sun-kissed beauty, but even he doesn't normally look that pallid. "We're not completely out of the woods yet. Well, I say woods, but I really mean thicket. Still can't get a lock on the Vortex, not just yet — we'll have to wait for the explosion to pass."

Nymbria staggers over to you and holds Galdron's shoulder for support. His hand comes up to rest on their green-skinned palm. "Explosion?" they ask, bewildered.

"Yep, explosion," the Doctor replies.

The TARDIS pitches sideways. A brilliant orange light beams through the ship's frosted police box doors. Nymbria cries out, wrapping their arms around Galdron's shoulders. You wince and lock your elbows around the railing again until the room stops shaking.

"That one. Drive core releasing all of its energy, which is what I meant by thicket. Thicket of radiation, blocking navigation like a ship in the fog. Okay!" The Doctor claps his hands together, rubbing his palms, and raises his eyebrows at the pair of shivering aliens. "You're safe now, I promise. Just need a time and a place to take you home."

Nymbria's fingers twitch. "T-Tegga, fifth century," they stutter. "Approximately two years after the Greatest War."

The Doctor's grin widens. His lips are wobbling, struggling to hold the shape of his smile. You frown as you remove your elbows — sweaty inner elbows, what are those called again — from the railing. "Specific, I like it! Always helps to be specific with directions. Nymbria — lovely name, by the way — if you could come over here, just need to do some confirming secondary checks…"

Nymbria glances down at Galdron, who blinks his four eyes at them encouragingly. They somewhat hesitantly unclasp their clawed fingers from around Galdron's shoulders and tiptoe over to the Doctor at the console.

"He never does secondary checks." You cross your arms. "Usually it's up-up-and-away with him. He must really like you two."

"I would hope so," Galdron sighs. He twists in the seat. "Thank you — we're very lucky to have met you. Toctis knows what would have happened to us if you hadn't shown up."

You huff a laugh and adjust your balance on one bare foot. "Don't thank me, thank him," you say, pursing your lips in the Doctor's direction. He swings the screen around to show Nymbria something, and they start excitedly chittering away. "I'm not the one with the time-travelling spaceship."

"That's true, but you did lead us to it," Galdron laughs good-naturedly. "The Doctor — how long have you been travelling with him?"

"Um," you reply, eloquently. Exactly how long is a little hard to tell. Time is strange onboard the TARDIS, flowing and ebbing in anamoalous, inscrutable ways. When you can't really see the passage of time, it almost stops existing, in a way. And when nearly every day is a brand new adventure, who cares what day it is? "A couple years? Something like that."

Galdron nods. "I see. You know him well. You work together splendidly. Reminds me a little of Nymbria and I." He sighs, turning his gaze to Nymbria standing by the console. They're focused on the monitor, jewel-toned eyes staring unblinkingly. He smiles wistfully. "I notice everything they do. You do the same for him."

You very nearly lose your already precarious balance on your single, heeled foot. Does he know? Has he, with his multiple eyes, seen right through you already? Figured out the meaning of your attentive stares? You cough, bending down carefully to slip your other heel off.

"I don't know about everything," you mutter, but despite your denial, your gaze travels to the Doctor. Without the chaos of a travelling TARDIS, it's easier to really look at him. His face is screwed up in concentration, brows furrowed and mouth twisted as he taps out coordinates. His eyes are narrowed, focused, but shiny and red around the edges. A shine on his ashen skin catches the cool lights of the console room — he reaches up and wicks it away with the back of his palm.

You tilt your head, not noticing Galdron's curious glance at you.

"Right, Tegga, fifth century, post-Greatest War, coming right up," the Doctor announces cheerfully. He waltzes over to the main lever — as you like to call it, since it's the one he always throws directly before takeoff — and pushes it down. A grinding, wheezing noise fills the room, the central column rising and falling in time with the rotation of the time rotor.

This was always your favorite part — travelling through space was always fun, but time? Being able to travel through it as you pleased? It's magical. You can feel the tension leave your body as the TARDIS slips through the Vortex. Your chest expands with what feels like a little bit of awe and a lot of gratefulness. You stare at the Doctor, watching the way his green eyes twinkle with joy, dancing around the console.

No safety net. Definitely nothing to catch you from falling.

The central column slides to a halt with a soft chime. The time rotor slows to a crawl. The Doctor springs away from the console, moving his coat aside to put his hands in his pockets, satisfied.

"One of my smoother landings," he says, proudly.

As if on cue, the TARDIS shakes, vibrating violently like a plane touching down on the ground. With a startled shout, the Doctor loses his footing, his knees buckling, long legs folding under his weight.

It's a good thing you aren't wearing your heels anymore — you dart forward and catch the Doctor's elbow, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his jacket. Your other hand shoots out to grab his hand and intertwine it desperately in yours. He wobbles, nearly topples over completely, but you hold him steady.

"Gotcha," you tease, and the Doctor blinks at you, eyes wide. "Are you okay?"

The Doctor blinks at you again, mouth agape. He closes it, then opens it as if to say something, then closes it again. "Never better," he says eventually, swaying lightly in your grasp. "I thought for certain we had landed. The TARDIS must’ve gone all caddywompus. One more round of turbulence for the road, I suppose. But I'm fine. Totally. No doubt."

He shakes you off with a wide, shaky grin. You flex your fingers around the air, a knot in your stomach slowly starting to form.

The Doctor bounds away to throw open the main doors. The corridor leading up to them brightens with soft, golden sunlight, and a warm wind whistles its way inside. The faint sounds of a bustling cityscape trickle through the open doors.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you!" Nymbria gasps, already running through them with a gleeful shout.

Galdron chuckles, pushing himself out of the chair. "They're excited to be home," he says, "we've had maybe enough excitement for a lifetime. Thank you, Doctor."

"Oh, it's nothing." The Doctor waves his hands flippantly. He tilts and leans on the doorframe, gesturing outside. "My pleasure. Happy to help."

Galdron tips his glasses at him — but before he leaves, he turns to face you, clasping your hands. His hands engulf yours as he squeezes them gratefully.

"Your Doctor," he says, and you try to ignore the way your stomach does a funny little flip at the word your, "take care of him, alright?"

"Oh!" you blurt. Your fingers twitch again in Galdron's palms. You sneak a glance at the Doctor, leaning against the TARDIS doorway. He heaves a great, stuttering sigh. If he sees you looking he doesn't notice. "Yeah. I will."

Galdron's four eyes crinkle kindly, and he lets your hands go. With another nod of thanks at the Doctor, he shuffles out of the TARDIS, and the doors swing closed behind him.

"I'd say that went well," the Doctor chirps.

You squint your eyes at him. "Are you really okay?"

"Oh, absolutely," he answers quickly. A little too quickly. His leaning against the doorframe is starting to turn more into sagging. "King of okay, I declared myself once. Not much for royalty, but you know…"

You quickly ball your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You're not sure what the knot in your stomach is, twisting and folding all over itself, whether its anger or worry. You decide it can be a little bit of both. "Be honest with me, Doctor," you say, with all the seriousness you can muster, "are you sick?"

The Doctor makes a face, somewhere in-between "are you kidding me" and "I can't believe you would say such a thing". "Sick?" he asks, incredulously, his wan face scrunched up in confusion. "No, no, I can't be sick. Not with this biology. I haven't been sick in —" he checks the watch on the back of his wrist — "a long while, and that's a technical term. Not sure what you're talking about."

He says that, but his whole body seems like its melting. The faint hint of a warm flush blooms across his cheeks, sweat glinting across his skin. All of his weight shifts dodgily on the leg leaning right against the doorframe —

"See? Hundred percent okay," he says. Then his knee gives out.

You rush forward to catch him for the second time in an hour. This time, your hands catch against his chest before he can slump to the floor. They slip down to his waist, and you wrap an arm around it, holding him upright. Holding him close, you realize he's sweltering, the front of his dress shirt damp with sweat.

The knot in your stomach tightens. "What was that about okay?" you ask.

"You heard me," he grinds out. He screws his eyes shut and makes a strange, strangled noise — not quite pain but not discomfort either. When he opens them again they're shiny and unfocused. "King of okay. Okay, that doesn't sound right anymore. How's alright? I'm alright, I really am —"

His blabbering denial fades into the background. You should feel embarrassed. Once again, the Doctor's a lot closer than he normally would be. One of your arms is wrapped around his waist and the other's pressed secure against his chest. The smell of honey almost seeps from his pores, making the air sticky with the scent of sweetness.

But you're pretty much the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor now. He's warm in your hold and growing heavier by the second. You can feel his hearts under your fingertips beating faster than they should be. So any kind of shame you might feel, any flustering of the butterflies in your stomach, gets absolutely blasted away by the intense, single-minded urge to just take care of your Doctor.

Huh. Maybe Galdron was onto something. You file a mental note to try to get in contact with him to thank him later.

"…and really, illness, it's incredibly last century," the Doctor continues, his voice fading back in. "You know there's whole galaxies that have eradicated most sicknesses now. Cure-alls on every corner of every planet. 'Course, they fetch a pretty penny for them, but —"

"Doctor," you interrupt.

He turns his head to look down at you. Whatever expression you have on your face makes him jerk his head back. "Yes? What is it?"

You shake your head at him. "No."

The Doctor frowns. "No? What do you mean —"

"I meant no, you are not fine," you intone, adjusting your hold on him. He goes still in your grasp. "You're coming with me."

"Coming where — whoa!"

The Doctor yelps when you start dragging him towards the staircase leading up to the second level of the console room. Incredibly, you manage to haul him up the steps and through one of the tall octagonal doorways. It's no easy feat — you're not quite as tall as him, the gangly tangle of limbs that he is, but you do indeed manage.

"Old girl," you call out, walking through the TARDIS's hallways. "Could you help me out a little?"

A low hum finds its way into your ears. You like to think she's speaking to you when she does that, even if you can't really understand her.

"Don't do that," the Doctor grumbles. He's trying his best to walk on his own — stubborn as an ox, you think — and he's keeping his chin up, although it looks like it's taking some effort.

"Do what?" you ask. The Doctor grumbles again, under his breath, his head tipping back so he can glare at the ceiling.

"Not you," he mutters, "her. She's gonna spoil you."

You could really do with being spoiled by the TARDIS, to be fair. The Doctor's continuing to sag in your arms. The knot in your stomach tightens for a third, vicious time — this could be really, really bad. If, perish the thought, he passed out, you would have no idea what to do. To be fair, you have no idea what to do right now, but sick and disoriented is a lot better than unconscious and unresponsive.

The clean smell of alcohol and antiseptics grows stronger in the air. You must be close to the medbay. The Doctor stirs, head lolling against your shoulder.

"There's fine," he says quietly. "Dropping off quite a bit… just stuff me in there and I'll have a healing coma and then be right as rain in a couple of hours."

He shoots you a weak smile. You could do that. He'd probably be alright. He's not even human; what would the harm be in dropping him off to heal in his own alien way?

Your heart twists violently in your chest at the thought of him asleep, all alone, with no one to watch over him.

Yeah. That would be the harm.

"Yeah, no," you tell him. His expression loosens in surprise. "No chance. Come on, we're nearly there."

The TARDIS, bless her inter-dimensional soul (and she's got a soul, you're sure of it), seems like she's put your room close. The doors to your room slide open soundlessly. Instantly, the knots inside you start to loosen in the comfortable space. Your home away from home — more like your actual home, at this point, with how long you've spent on the TARDIS.

The Doctor's nearly pliant in your arms now. It's easy to set him down onto your bed. He sinks into the sheets, melting into the covers… then he straightens up suddenly, blinking quickly, as if he can blink away the daze thats fallen over his eyes.

"There's really no need," he says. The words stumble over each other. "Look, I'm really fine, so fine you wouldn't even believe, so there's no need to fuss over me…" His eyes go hazy for a moment, and he chuckles. "Hehe, fine, I've been told I'm fine, is that true? Anyway…"

Well, it is, but you're not about to go on about it. Not when he's like this. You clamber onto the bed, nice fancy dress and all, and sit beside him. You hold your hands out and raise your eyebrows expectantly. "Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Touch you," you continue. You tap the sides of your neck. "Check your temperature."

The Doctor stares, eyes half-lidded. He's trying to stay here, present in the moment, with you. You can tell by the way his expression pinches and he shakes his head, trying to clear it from the fuzz that's undoubtedly filling it. Eventually, he nods.

You rest the back of your palm against his forehead and — goodness, he's scorching. If you felt this temperature on another person you'd be fearing for their life — but then again, Time Lord, not exactly human. Still, you can't help the hiss that escapes your lips.

The Doctor winces in sympathy. "Sorry. I'm alright."

"Stop that," you sigh. Your move your hand away from his forehead, then cup the Doctor's cheeks in your palms. They're so incredibly warm, but you smile and bear it. "Can you just let me take care of you? Please?"

The Doctor blinks again. A little shocked, a little owlishly, lashes fluttering under the flushed cheeks under your palms. His lips form around the shape of a silent protest before he swallows it away.

"Okay," he says instead, simply. He sounds embarrassed to hear the words come out of his mouth. "Just this once."

"If you keep this up it's going to be more than just once," you snipe, but there's no venom there. The Doctor even huffs a weak chuckle, tilting his head to the side, as if to say touché. You stand up off the bed, smoothing down your dress. "Are you gonna be okay while I go and get some stuff? I'll only be a few minutes."

The Doctor pitches sideways. His head lands on the pile of pillows you'd left on the bed before you boarded the Odon. "You can do loads in a few minutes. Suck a mint, buy a sledge, have a fast bath."

"Make a cup of tea?" you offer.

His eyes widen, a droopy smile spreading across his face. "Yeeees, a cuppa, I'd like that, thanks," he slurs. "I'll wait. I'm good at that, waiting. I think."

You lean down, and reach out to brush his floppy hair out of his face. His eyes flutter closed, the same droopy smile growing even wider, if you can believe it. "No, you aren't."

"No, I'm not," he agrees, with a tiny laugh. "Won't move an inch though. Promise."

With another brush of his cheek (quite possibly the only chance you'll get to touch him like that), you set off to grab your aforementioned stuff. The TARDIS continues to spoil you, or at least you think she does; the first room you see when you leave your room is the wardrobe, even though it's supposed to be a lot farther away, and a lot further down. You pick up a loose, comfy-looking knit sweater and sling it over your shoulder. The kitchen appears right beside it, and you do end up making the Doctor his cup of tea with a random teabag you take off the shelves that smells a lot like pears. The medbay, impossibly, welcomes you next, and a cabinet door swings open to reveal a row of four immaculately arranged pills.

Thank you, old girl, you think. You hope the TARDIS, with her telepathic interface, can hear you.

"I'm back," you call softly, coming back into your room. "Got the stuff. I — oh."

The Doctor has, true to his word, not moved an inch. He's still lying on his side, his lanky body flopped onto your pile of pillows in a position that doesn't really look very comfortable. It looks as if he's moved a little though, the edge of a blanket held loosely in his hand, like he's tried to pull it over himself and given up halfway through. Or fallen asleep. Or both.

You feel… impossibly fond. There's a warmth in your chest, that is hopefully not a fever, and you can't stop a soft laugh from bubbling out of you. There he is, last of the Time Lords, the Oncoming Storm, Predator of the Daleks, asleep in your bed. He's adorable. His face is slack and peaceful, mouth hanging open a touch, maybe the hint of a snore if you listen hard enough.

"Doctor," you whisper, slowly sitting next to him. "I got your tea."

The Doctor cracks one eye open with a disgruntled little noise. "Hm? Oh. Lovely."

He slowly pushes himself upright. His hair's flattened, sticking out at an angle, and you have to stifle the giggle that threatens to escape you. He reaches out for the steaming cup of tea in your hands — you pull it back and he whines, the poor thing, sea glass fever-bright eyes staring at you sad and confused.

"Sorry." You set the cup of tea and the pills down on your bedside table. You rest your hands on his shoulders, feeling the heat rolling off him in waves. "Black tie can't be comfortable like this. I got you something to wear; that first, and then tea, okay?"

The Doctor nods. More accurately, his head bobs in the faint impression of a nod, but you get it anyway. You pull his bowtie off his neck and set it gently on the bed beside you (he bobs his head approvingly at your handling of his precious bow tie). You help him take off his coat, maneuvering his unwieldy arms out of the tuxedo coat's sleeves, and drop it on the floor (that article of clothing he cares less about, and does not get a head bob of judgement).

Next, you've got to take off his dress shirt oh god you've got to take off his dress shirt. Sure, travelling with the Doctor was a constant thrill, filled with adventure and near-endless brushes with death. This was something else entirely — the unshakeable urge to take care of him trembles a little, the butterflies in your stomach creeping through. You? Unbuttoning the Doctor's shirt? Oh no you're going to see him bare chested?

You don't realize you've frozen until the Doctor calls your name.

"You okay?" he asks, soft. The way he does when you're scared. You're not scared, not exactly, but it's a pretty close analogue.

You shake your head at him, smothering a smile under pursed lips. Still always so worried, even when he doesn't need to be. "We've gotta get this off so you can get changed," you say, your fingers hovering over the buttons of his shirt.

"You didn't answer my question," he presses. He lifts his hand to wrap it around yours, squeezes it. And still always so… him. Nothing escapes him. Well, maybe except some things, but whatever. "Come on."

You sigh. Squeeze his hand back. Will that single-minded itch to be his caretaker to come back, if only to rid you of your embarrassment. "I don't think I'm the priority right now," you murmur.

The Doctor blinks at you blearily. Swallows a little nervously. "'Course you are. Always are. Always to me."

You can't reply. What do you say to that? What can you say? The courage to unbutton his shirt finds you then, with his muttered admission. You try your best not to think about how this is the Doctor like you've never seen him before; sure, he's been injured, poisoned, what have you, but in front of you here, he's vulnerable. Letting you care for him instead of pushing you away, dealing with his pain alone, the way you know he does. You've seen him, in those quiet, charged moments, hurt bleeding from him like blood from a wound — before he sees you looking and tamps it away with a grin and a magic trick.

Shirt fully unbuttoned, you ease his arms out of the sleeves. It's not just his face that's flushed, but his chest and arms as well The skin on his shoulders is dry and flaking, but when you look closer the rashes have a pattern. They run across his skin like scales, normal skin separated with striations of redness. They disappear from your sight when you pull the shirt over his head, but you make another mental note to see if the medbay has any ointments that can help with that.

"How are you feeling?" you ask, smoothing over the fabric of his sweater. It absolutely swamps him, although he does look much more comfortable. You hand him his tea, too, which he accepts with a smile.

"Tired," he groans, "which is new. I'm all achy and warm, too, which is also new. Relatively new. It's all firsts today for this body."

"I'm sorry," you start, but the Doctor shakes his head.

"No, no, don't be sorry," he says, gently. "Nothing to be sorry about." He takes a sip of his tea and his eyes flutter shut. When they open again they're slightly clearer, a small spark lighting up within them. "Lovely cup of tea, thank you, just what I needed — I've got an approximately forty degree Celsius fever —" He must notice the way your jaw snaps open, because he holds his free hand up, calming — "don't worry, Time Lord, my brain's not gonna boil; strange rash over my shoulders and back; muscle weakness, general feeling of lethargy. Ooh. Think I've got it."

"What?" You shuffle closer to him. He doesn't move away.

"They're from Tegga, of course," he huffs. He smacks an open palm against his forehead. "Of course! Ezampalkeonsians!"

You shake your head. "Sorry?"

"Ezampalkeonosians," the Doctor repeats, dragging out every syllable. "Nymbriel's species, second most abundant on the planet of Tegga. Architects, builders, aaand, most importantly for my ill self, asymptomatic carriers of the Palkea virus."

"Nymbriel was sick?" Thinking back on them now, you can't imagine it — but then again, Nymbriel was a lizard person, so who knows what sick even looks like for them.

"Oh, you'd never know." The Doctor's voice slows, drops into a lower register, like even the discovery took a lot out of him. "They're all sick, it just doesn't bother them. Bothers me, though. Bothers me a lot. Eugh."

It bothers you, too, seeing the Doctor like this — though you suppose he's figured that out by now, by the way he's staring at your face.

A few seconds pass. The Doctor sips his tea loudly, breaking the silence. "Could you pass me those pills, please?"

"Fair warning, I have no idea what these do," you warn, handing him the pills.

"Me too!" he chirps. He rolls them around in his hand, then throws them back all at once and downs them with a large gulp of tea. "I'll probably be fine. TARDIS wouldn't give them to you if they didn't help."

Still somewhat flabbergasted at the speed at which he downed his medicine, you wordlessly take his tea cup from him and set it aside. Beside you, the Doctor yawns — yawns! — stretching his arms out and wrapping them around himself.

"Cold?"

"Just the opposite." A shiver runs through him and he pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his hands. "Chills. I'll have to add that to the list of symptoms. Not sure if this is communicable to humans, so you'd best stay away if you don't want to catch this…"

You laugh, finding the blanket he'd tried earlier to pull over himself and gently wrapping it around his shoulders. The warm fondness in your chest expands at the sight of him bundled in blankets, his eyes once again starting to droop. "I think it's a little late for that, Doctor. I'm here for the long run. If I catch it, I catch it. I'm willing to take that risk."

Looking up at you through eyes that can barely stay open, the Doctor smiles. It's small, and slight, but there, and just as bright. "You're worried," he breathes, as if it's some kind of universe-shattering revelation.

Your face twists in confusion. "You didn't think I would be? Come on." The words escape you before you even have the time to process them, or rethink them, or regret them. "Kind of comes with the whole loving you thing, you know."

Oh.

…Ah.

What the hell did you just say?

Now you have the time to process, regret, and rethink what you've just said, in that order.

You could have said literally anything else, been more vague, used the word care instead of love — but no, you've decided to confess, and incredibly casually too at that. This wasn't how you thought it was going to go. You didn't think it was going to ever happen, mostly, just a far-flung dream. But you always thought it was going to be grander, more dramatic. Not like this, with the Doctor in your bed, sick as a dog.

"We don't — we don't have to talk about it," you stammer. "Or even acknowledge it! It's nothing."

The Doctor's just… blinking at you. Quiet. Thinking. If you look hard enough maybe you can see the gears turning in his big Time Lord brain.

"You noticed," he says simply.

"Yeah. I don't know." The words spill out, tumbling. "I know how you usually are. I guess… I notice when you aren't."

"Okay," he says. Okay? The shame starts to slither in then, wriggling into that fondness in your heart. You're almost silently praying for him to just drop it, for his fever-addled mind to forget all about it.

But then the corners of his lips quirk upwards, and he's smiling again, and it feels like the sun shining on your face. Your force yourself to meet his eyes. They're still a little hazy, but he's… he looks happy.

"You love me," he murmurs, a dopey smile spreading wider on his face.

You do. You do. You can't help it, your own anxious smile twitching on your lips. The nervous energy has to go somewhere, it does — the caution might as well belong to the wind at this point — and you lean in to press your lips to his tepid forehead.

The Doctor jolts away, tugging his blanket with him. "No, no, don't do that," he protests, "I said I don't want you catching it."

"And I said the thing about risk," you shoot back, reaching out to pull the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, fitting them snugly in place. "And about loving you." Doubt grips at the warmth sitting in your chest. "Which is… okay, I hope."

He says your name — quiet, gentle, a promise and a prayer all wrapped up in a few syllables. "Oh, it's more than okay, dear," he whispers, dazed. "It's fantastic."

Just like that, the doubt disappears like it was never even there.

The Doctor leans back, flopping down onto your bed. He's all tucked in and cozy now, and drifting away, his eyes sliding just barely closed, chest rising and falling with deeper and deeper breaths. You shift to leave him to sleep — but his arm shoots out from beneath his blanket, quick as a bullet, gripping the hem of your dress.

"Don't go," he pleads, the end of his words pitching upwards like a question. His eyes are barely open now, but so sad. "Stay. Stay. With me. Please."

Like you were ever going to say no. You climb into your bed, burrowing yourself underneath the blankets, and take the Doctor into your arms. He curls up against you, slotting neatly onto every curve of your body. You tuck his head under your chin and he snuggles closer, nuzzling his face against your chest.

You should feel embarrassed. You might have been. You don't. Instead, you're wholly content. You're not letting go for anything.

"Thank you for taking care of me," he whispers. Tenderly, he presses his lips to your collarbone, and oh, the burn it leaves on your heart will probably stay there forever.

You don't get a chance to reply before you feel his breathing begin to slow to a crawl. The TARDIS turns down the lights for you, dimming them slowly, as the Doctor drifts off into sleep. The steady beat of his hearts relaxes, follows the tempo of the TARDIS's humming and warbling, and that starts to pull you under too.

In that moment, tucked in your arms, the Doctor realizes he has got a safety net — it's you, ready to catch him when he's falling, like he's been for you for quite a while now.