She feels fine. Really, she does.

"I don't get what all the fuss is about," Rose protests for the hundredth time (or, perhaps more accurately, the fourth time) as the Doctor ushers her into the TARDIS' medical bay. "I'm not sick!"

"I didn't say 'sick'. I said 'poisoned,'" the Doctor replies absentmindedly. He darts over to the supply cabinets and pulls the doors open one by one, prattling at the top of his lungs. "Big difference, sick, poisoned. 'Sick' means you could have a virus or an infection or a disease or any other number of fun physical ailments. 'Poisoned,' on the other hand, suggests you ingested or touched or otherwise absorbed something you shouldn't have."

He shoots a look over his shoulder. "Sound familiar?"

Rose fidgets under his glare, scuffing her shoe against the pristine white floor. The toe of her trainers leaves a dark smudge behind. "The Glavonian bloke said it was safe."

"Oh, are we just trusting every Glavonian bloke and Slitheen snake-oil salesman we encounter now?" the Doctor asks, exasperated.

"Dunno. He seemed all right."

Rose can practically hear him rolling his eyes at her. "'Seemed all right.' Seemed a bit pretty, more like," the Doctor mutters under his breath.

He rifles through the supply cabinets, pots and packets and syringes ruffled by busy hands and falling to the floor like an bizarre assortment of rainbow-colored autumn leaves. Rose leans against the wall and chews on a fingernail while he searches.

"So what's gonna happen to me?" she asks after a moment. "You know. If I've been poisoned."

"The symptoms or the whole death bit?"

Rose shrugs. "All of it, I guess?"

The Doctor abandons his search in the cabinets and starts pulling out drawers. "Symptoms include dry mouth, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, dilated pupils, confusion, tachycardia, hallucinations, and headache. Mode of death is poisoning by a form of atropine, not unlike that found in belladonna. Deadly nightshade," he explains before Rose can ask.

"Ah," she says in response. She has no clue what belladonna is, or deadly nightshade for that matter, and she's not about to ask—she only brings up herbology questions if she needs something to lull her to sleep.

"Atropine mucks about with your parasympathetic nervous system—a-ha! There it is—" and here he emerges victorious with a vial of blue liquid clutched in his hand—"and basically destroys your body's ability to self-regulate all the stuff that should be running on automatic."

"Like my breathing and my heartbeat," Rose supplies.

"Very good!" the Doctor beams at her. Then he considers. "Well, no. Very bad. Very very bad, actually. Which is why," he says, pointing to the exam table and fixing her with a glare, "you should have stayed away. Like I told you to."

"I think you're just jealous," Rose says sullenly, hoisting herself on to the exam table. Paper crackles and faux leather creaks under her weight.

The Doctor retrieves his stethoscope from the counter and drapes it around his neck. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, cos I listened to someone who isn't you. And he waspretty."

"Mmm," he says, in much the same way someone might say it if they absolutely were not paying attention to a word you were saying. He throws some things haphazardly onto a tray—a box of medical latex gloves, the vial of antidote, a syringe fresh in its packet, a roll of medical tape, some antiseptic wipes and clean cotton balls—and brings it all over to Rose, setting the tray on the table beside her.

"Finally. A professional," Rose teases.

"Indeed. Now," he says as he fishes out a pair of gloves and pulls them on with a sharp snap, "If you'd be so kind as to remove your jacket, Miss Tyler."

Rose complies, unzipping her jacket and setting it aside. She shivers in her thin tee. "Whatever you say, doctor-Doctor."

He smiles at that but he hasn't got much attention to spare for her at the moment, busying himself with an antiseptic pouch. He tears the packet and a sharp smell punctures the air, the stringent scent of something aggressively clean. The Doctor grasps Rose by the wrist, pulls her arm out flat and swabs at the soft inside of her arm, cleaning it. Rose tries not to squirm with ticklishness. She can only guess he's going to give her a shot there.

"Erm, Doctor?" Rose asks, hesitating.

"Mm?"

"Is that gonna mess me up or anything? Like if I wasn't poisoned after all? I mean, I only smelled the flower, it isn't like I touched it or ate it or anything. And I really don't feel sick."

"Not 'sick.' 'Poisoned,'" he reminds her. "And no, you shouldn't suffer any adverse side effects from the antidote, whether you're poisoned or not. This is just a precautionary measure. Stuff's harmless on its own."

He removes the syringe from its packet and sticks it into the antidote vial, slowly drawing out several milliliters of blue fluid. The stuff reminds Rose of mouthwash.

"Haven't you got something besides needles?" Rose asks, eying the syringe uncertainly. She can't tell if she's just being a scaredy-cat, or if the needle is actually as ten-times-bigger-than-normal as it seems. Her legs jitter nervously, heels thumping against the table. "I thought your medical equipment was supposed to be all advanced and superior or whatever."

"Not for something like this. Straight into the bloodstream's the best way to go."

He holds her forearm still, placing the tip of the needle against her skin. Rose looks away. She stifles a laugh. All the things she's seen and done, and she still can't handle getting a shot.

She winces when the needle passes through her flesh, biting into her with a pinch that she can feel in her teeth. Her arm tenses with the pain and her hand curls up into a fist, fingernails digging into her palm. The shot seems to drag on forever—how much antidote does she need, anyway?

"You all right?" the Doctor asks, concerned.

Rose nods. She tries not to think about the piece of metal jabbing into her arm and focuses on other things instead. The buzzing of the lights overhead. The smell of the antiseptic wipe. The feel of the Doctor's fingers around her wrist, thumb rubbing over the sensitive skin there.

It's very distracting. Rose can't decide if that's a good thing or not.

Is he even aware that he's doing that right now?

"There," the Doctor says, pulling the needle away. He presses a cotton ball to the inside of her arm, dabbing at the tiny droplets of blood that well up in protest. He tapes the cotton flat against her arm and he pushes her hand upward, wedging the makeshift bandage firmly in place. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

His fingers are threaded through hers.

"Do I get a lolly?" Rose asks.

The Doctor grins at her and leans forward. "Only if you're very good." He plants a quick kiss on her knuckles.

Rose laughs. "What's gotten into you?"

"Who, me?" he asks innocently. "Absolutely nothing! Well, a biscuit earlier, and maybe an ice cream, but I can hardly be blamed for that."

He bounds across the room and pops open a biohazard waste bin with his toe, peeling off his gloves and tossing them in with a flourish. "Anyway, can't a fellow just be glad his companion is all right?" he calls back to her. "Or going to be all right, anyway? Hopefully?"

Rose isn't fooled. His text may be full of gibberish half the time, but she still can read between the lines. Her eyes narrow in suspicion, tracking him as he walks back toward her.

"Are you worried right now?" she wonders aloud.

"Of course I'm worried." The Doctor's voice is casual, perfectly conversational, even, as he slips his spectacles out of his breast-pocket and slides them on.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be," he says, stepping closer to her. Close enough that her knees are very nearly brushing against his suit jacket. "Companions don't exactly grow on trees—well, except in the places where they do—and I'm not really keen on replacing you any time soon. Bit of a bother, having to break you lot in all over again. So many questions."

His hands reach out to feel around her neck, under her jaw. His fingers are cool on her throat. Rose tries not to swallow too hard at such a personal touch; she can only imagine how embarrassed she would feel if he picked up on her ridiculous physical tells. He's already standing so close, and his attention is focused so intently on her, and really, this isn't doing anything to help her resolution not to think about him like that, especially since she knows for a fact that he's more worried than he's letting on.

She silently chides herself. He's probably had a hundred dozy human girls trailing after him with puppy-dog eyes. He's probably sick of it.

(Rose can't blame them, though; especially wouldn't be able to blame anyone who pined after him in this regeneration.)

The Doctor frowns. He prods his index and middle finger firmly against her pulse point. He looks down at his watch.

"Odd," he says quietly.

"What?"

"Well, the effects of the antidote are supposed to be instantaneous, but it doesn't seem to be calming your heartrate. In fact—it almost seems to be elevatingit."

"Huh," Rose says. She imagines she should feel worried about that right now, but the fact is, she feels fine. Well, maybe just a little lightheaded from the proximity of a certain fit Time Lord who has a bad habit of stroking her wrist and kissing her hand and unnecessarily grabbing her about the waist at times, but other than that, she can't complain.

"And you're a little bit flushed," the Doctor continues, looking her over. "Pink in the cheeks, the neck, and along the chest." He pulls up his sleeve and presses the inside of his wrist to her forehead. "Do you feel feverish?"

Rose shakes her head, or tries to with his arm in the way.

"38.1 degrees Celsius, just a smidge higher than average, probably nothing to be concerned about," the Doctor announces, drawing his arm back. But he doesn't seem satisfied by this. He worries his tongue between his teeth. "Still."

He removes the stethoscope from its perch around his shoulders, plugs the ends in his ears. "Better safe than sorry," he offers by way of explanation. "Let's give the lungs a check, shall we? Make sure that parasynthesis is working at full capacity."

"I think it's fine?" Rose half-says, half-asks. She feels like she's breathing just fine, but he seems so sure something is wrong, it's easy for her to second-guess herself.

"Let's make completely sure," the Doctor replies. He rubs the end of the stethoscope on his sleeve, warming it up. Strangely courteous of him, Rose thinks. "Again, better safe than not-safe."

He starts to move toward her, hesitates, stops. His hands freeze in midair. "Is it all right—I mean—it really would be—"

The Doctor casts about for the right set of words. "Auscultation works best if there's no interference with the instrument."

Rose raises an eyebrow in query.

The Doctor fidgets, bouncing on his heels just the smallest bit. "I'll get the clearest reading without the shirt in the way."

"Oh," Rose replies softly, and tries not to blush even worse than she already is.

"I mean, I can—I'll put the gloves back on, or something, if that would make you more comfortable," the Doctor rushes, but his words grind to a halt as Rose lifts her arms and pulls her shirt over her head. The Doctor's eyes widen in surprise.

"What?" Rose asks.

"Erm, nothing, just—"

He keeps his gaze firmly fixed on her face. "I was just going to, you know. Go underyour shirt."

Embarrassment thunders through her. "Ah. Should I—?"

"No, no, it's fine," he assures her. "Honestly, probably preferable. Least probability of static interference."

He gestures awkwardly. "Shall I?"

"Sure. Have at it. Get up in there, or whatever."

"Right," the Doctor says quickly. "Here we go."

"Allons-y?" Rose supplies.

He grins at her. "Allons-y."

His grin melts away, though, when he steps closer, playfulness and smiles replaced with businesslike movement and a professional facade. His fingers brush her collarbone, and she wonders, a little bit, if maybe she has been poisoned after all, because her heart rate is increasing again. She can feel it pounding in her ears.

"All right, Rose," the Doctor says. "Just try to breathe normally."

She doesn't know how she's supposed to do that when he's so close, and, oh yeah, there's the little detail of she's sitting there with no shirt on, but she does her best, forcing air in and out of her lungs at a measured pace. He presses the end of the stethoscope against her chest, almost at her throat; first one side, then another. Rose watches him as he listens, trying to see if she can suss out what he's thinking, but his face is unreadable. He moves lower, pausing on each side, and Rose thinks this is the quietest she's ever seen him.

He frowns and shifts a little closer to her and god, he smells good. Normally Rose doesn't notice it—if he wears any kind of scent, or has any naturally, she usually can't tell, it's either incredibly subtle or she just has a really bum sense of smell—but it's impossible not to notice when he's standing so close. Close enough that she can't really look him in the eyes anymore without straining her neck upward a little bit. She settles for looking at his jacket lapel instead, at a tiny pick in the fabric there.

Fall smell, she thinks. Crisp air. Like winter is about to hit. She notices it when she breathes in. She resolves to breathe through her mouth.

Rose feels like she's doing pretty well with her controlled breathing until he slides the stethoscope down even further. He's touching her in the most sanitized, clinical, and unromantic way possible—but of course, she realizes, her stupid body doesn't know that. All it knows is that the Doctor is touching her, and her body likes that. Quite a bit, actually.

"See, now, that's troublesome," the Doctor mutters. "Heartrate is picking up again and breathing is irregular. Why isn't the antidote working yet?"

Rose freezes. Oh, no. He's going to figure it out any second. There's nothing wrong with her. Nothing at all, except that her treacherous body is going to give her away.

He slides the stethoscope even a little bit lower. "Or perhaps—"

Rose grabs his hand before it can move any further. "You know what? I actually am feeling a bit feverish. Think you could grab me a paracetamol?"

The Doctor doesn't respond to her query, but instead, when his eyes meet hers, his mouth falls open. Quick as a flash, he's got his fingers wrapped round Rose's chin.

"Your pupils are dilated," he murmurs, brow furrowed.

Rose's breath stalls in her throat. Has he figured her out?

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "That's classic atropine poisoning, Rose."

He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes dart about the room madly. "Why isn't the antidote working?" he asks again.

"No, Doctor, please," Rose pleads. "I promise you, I'm all right—"

"Did you come into contact with any other foreign elements or compounds while we were on Glavon?"

Rose shrugs. "Maybe?" she offers weakly.

The Doctor starts to pace. "No, no, that isn't it either. We were only planetside for a day. And all of your symptoms match atropine poisoning exactly. And you've been inoculated against anything we should encounter on our travels. Well, except for Toadswallop, but I'm not half-convinced that it isn't real anyway. Bloody seventy-third century pharmaceutical companies."

"Doctor—"

"No, Rose, it's all right," the Doctor mutters distractedly, scratching the back of his neck. "I'll figure it out. We'll just have to run some tests, is all. But in the meantime we might have to put you in the cryo-chamber for a bit, just in case—"

She has no idea what a cryo-chamber is any more than she's familiar with belladonna, but Rose doesn't like the sound of it. "Doctor," she says impatiently.

"—or I suppose we could opt for a blood transfusion, I'll see what I've got in the bank, if there's any B-positive lying around—"

"Doctor," Rose almost shouts. She pushes off the table to join him. "I don't need a blood transfusion—really, I don't even want to know howyou know my blood type—and I don't need a chamber thing, and I don't need any special medicine or anything weird. Okay? I'm fine!"

The Doctor shakes his head. "No offense, Rose, but you aren't exactly a physician."

Rose has to try very hard not to insult him under her breath. "No offense, but I'm not exactly poisoned, either."

"Ah, then have you come up with a satisfactory alternative explanation for your symptoms?" the Doctor asks, crossing his arms. Daring her to challenge him.

"Look, I know my body, all right?" she tries. "This is all normal, human stuff. It's nothing dramatic. Can't you just trust me?"