At a certain point, what happened ceases to matter, and only the thought of how to fix it remains.

The Doctor's mind has completely pushed out anything that isn't related to the latter, his billions upon billions of very-impressive brain cells working overtime to chart out each and every point of action as he carries the limp body through blistering winds. He doesn't think of the gale lashing his face, of the sun's glare glinting off the snow until it blinds his eyes, of the snow sucking at his boots to tether him to the frozen ground; he thinks only of the abandoned cabin they passed some time before, whether it's well-insulated enough to block out the shrieking draught, whether it has a fireplace, whether there's a possibility that it has blankets or running water or anything that could make a compress, whether Rose will live long enough to see any of it.

She's nearly stopped shivering. Not a good sign.

No, he tells himself sharply. There isn't any room for that thought in his mind, either. He tamps it down in favor of calculating his own energy expenditure, tallying the amount of calories he'll need to consume to replenish his own stores, counting the steps and the seconds until they reach the cabin, until the precious body he carries is safe.

Four-hundred seventy-three. Four-hundred seventy-four.

Rose is cold in his arms.

Cabin—deserted. Walls—sturdy enough. Fireplace—empty. Supplies—minimal.

Rose—barely breathing.

Can't get bogged down by that. There's a plan, and he's got to stick to it if they're both going to get through this. But he figures he has time for the half-second he uses to press his lips to her ice-cold forehead.

(He tells himself he's only checking her temperature. Maybe the twenty-ninth time's the charm.)

First things first: this cabin miraculously, blessedly, has not only the capacity for running water, but warm running water, and never in his lives has the Doctor been so grateful for such a small miracle.

A whir of the sonic reinstates the connections needed and within seconds, the tiny shower lets forth a lukewarm stream. The Doctor sheds his jacket and pulls Rose into the shower, holding her tight as the water rains down on them both. Rose murmurs in protest—her skin is so cold to the touch, the water probably feels horribly hot, even boiling—and she pushes weakly against his chest, but he doesn't budge from the shower. He does, however, slide down the wall with her until he's resting on the floor.

Damn, but he's tired.

Eventually, Rose stops squirming, but over the rush of the water raining all around them, the Doctor can just make out the sounds of her crying in pain, and he knows her tears are soaking his jumper beneath the shower-water.

He grits his teeth and cinches his eyes shut and ignores it.

The water-heater fails quickly, not that the Doctor expected anything else. But still: it's a problem. Not only that, but the space-heater is gone, along with the bed, both of them probably whisked away and tucked happily with the cabin's previous inhabitant (wherever they may be now), but some bedding materials remain—a little threadbare, the tiniest bit musty, dotted with a hole here and there. They'll do. The more ragged pieces are cast into the fireplace for flame-fodder; the plusher pieces are piled into a pallet atop the patchwork rug on the floor, about a meter or so from the fireplace. The Doctor doesn't dare move it any closer; Rose's body may be resilient, is probably fighting for survival out of sheer stubbornness as much as anything else, but it's still subject to the possibility of cardiac arrest. And that, the Doctor tries not to think, is something he would have a much, much harder time fixing.

Not that this isn't already difficult enough. Blimey, but Rose is a dead weight when she's unconscious.

The sonic makes quick work of the fire (rather, it makes quick work of the busted convection-cooker left behind, and the resultant sparks catch on the bedding quite nicely), but it will still take some time for the flames to build up the heat Rose needs, and in the meantime, he can't let her get any colder. In a matter of moments, he has her wet clothes peeled off her body and cast in front of the fire to dry. He wraps her up in the thickest of the blankets, careful to leave her face exposed, and lays her down with a touch that's surprisingly gentle for all that these hands have seen and done.

It's still not enough, he knows. Right now, those blankets are nearly useless; after all, it isn't as if she's got any body heat for them to trap. Hands stalling, the Doctor hesitates for only the smallest of split-seconds before he makes up his mind. He doesn't have a choice, not really, not if he wants her to survive.

And Rose will understand. She's Rose.

His movements much more brisk and brusque now than they were with her, the Doctor sheds his garments one-by-one, listening to the quiet clunk of each piece thudding clumsily on the floor. He lifts the blankets as little as he can get away with (no use in letting any of their meager heat escape) and crawls in, wrapping his arms around Rose and pulling her to him.

Her skin burns against his. Gods, she's still cold as ice.

The Doctor covers every square inch of her skin he can possibly touch, tucking her head beneath his chin, situating her close until her chest presses against his. For once, he's grateful for these too-large and inelegant hands, the perfect size for spanning the surface area of her back and feeling the gentle expansion and compression of her ribcage as she breathes.

Fire is built. Cold and wet clothes removed. Gentle rewarming initiated. Vasoconstriction slowing; heart rate increasing. He has done everything he possibly can. The only thing left now is to wait.

So he waits.

Time passes at a tortoise-pace, lumbering and awkward but technically making forward progress. And after an interminable series of seconds (that stretch into minutes that stretch into millennia), Rose's body makes forward progress, too—her breathing grows deeper, her heart rate climbs incrementally higher, and slowly but surely, her lips are no longer tinged blue. The cabin doesn't have anything the Doctor can use as a proper dry compress, but the Doctor has got his hands; he can control his temperature well enough, after all. He gently cups one hand around her neck, pressing his warm palm against the pulse-point beneath her jaw, and flattens his other hand over her bare chest.

Cheeky, he imagines her saying with that tongue-touched grin of hers, and he rolls his eyes.

Oi, he would reply. Get that brain out of the gutter.

Nah, I don't think I will. It likes it here.

He would stifle a laugh. Here I am, generously sharing my thermoregulation skills—a perfect gentleman, me!—and you're making jokes at my expense!

Aww, Doctor. When it comes to you, the jokes sort of write themselves.

He imagines how he would mock-glower at her. Unlike him, she wouldn't hold back her laughter; it would burst from her in a throaty giggle, matching perfectly with her smile. And he would chuckle despite himself, because at the end of the day, he's just a giant sap, isn't he? The Doctor shakes his head, even as the corners of his mouth twitch.

Rose stirs, mumbling something indiscernible in her half-sleep as her face nuzzles into his hand, and the Doctor realizes that he's cupping her jaw, his thumb idly stroking her cheek. It's a tender motion, uncharacteristically sweet for a physician taking care of his charge.

He stops, chiding himself. None of that. This is just for her survival, nothing more. He shifts his palm downward, closer to her collarbone, and Rose quiets again.

No more daydreaming. He can't afford to get distracted. He sense-feels her heartrate instead, counting it as it pulses against the lifeline in his palm.

The plan, the Doctor thinks irritatedly, was only to stave off danger, to halt the progress of the hypothermia until the fire grew warm enough, then leave Rose's body to raise her core temperature on its own. The plan was not, in any way, shape, or form, to get comfortable, to become drowsy, or to fall asleep.

Yet, here he is. Waking up.

Silently, he damns his body for its weakness. Did it just trek across miles of frozen wasteland? Yes. Did it carry an unconscious body the entire way? Certainly. Did it divert all of its remaining energy into reviving that unconscious body? Of course it did, but none of that is any excuse. How dare it betray him like this?

He starts to pull away, but Rose murmurs in protest. The Doctor stops. Her breathing has petered out to normal now, no longer shallow and rapid but deep, even. The breaths have transformed from the ragged desperation of someone struggling to live into the soft purr of someone drinking in a long, much-needed sleep. Something loosens in the Doctor's chest and he wriggles back down into their nest of blankets, wrapping his arms around Rose once again.

Breathing—normal. Heart rate—slow, but well out of the danger levels. Core temperature—

Well.

He presses his lips to her forehead once more, and really, that tells him what he needs to know, but it doesn't show him. He doesn't feel it, and he needs to—he's surprised with just how urgent that need is. He presses his lips to her throat, instead, and feels her pulse bleating under his mouth. Feels the warmth of her skin, how her back arches and pulse begins to speed up at his touch.

The Doctor quickly draws back, his own hearts pounding sluggishly in his chest. He forgets, sometimes, how much human bodies respond to contact. But his body is stronger than that; it doesn't cry out for physical comfort, doesn't long for warmth at his side or lips on his mouth or fingers fitting between his. His body is better than that, even if it doesn't seem to know it, even if it seems perfectly content to curl itself protectively around Rose for a small eternity, a dragon protecting its beloved treasure.

Repressing a huff, the Doctor settles back into the blankets again. Fine. If his stupid weakened body needs sleep and warmth and comfort, he'll allow it. Just this once. Sleep, and then as soon as Rose can safely walk, they'll hike back to the TARDIS and forget any of this ever happened.

(Well, no, the Doctor won't forget; he rarely forgets anything. He generally can't, even when he wants to. But he'll put it out of his mind, and that's the next best thing.)

He slowly awakens to the sensation of something moving in his arms. His eyes slide open to find Rose, conscious and watching him, a smile playing on her lips. Relief settles into his bones and his tensed muscles loosen just the littlest bit, relaxing him deep into the mattress. She's all right, she's awake, she's alive.

"Good morning," he says with a grin. "Sleep well?"

Rose shrugs. "Can't complain. Bit warm, though."

Laughing, the Doctor pulls her closer, buries his nose in her hair, breathes her in.

"That worried, huh?" she asks in a voice muffled by his chest.

"Me? Worried? Nah," he replies softly. "Just sniffing your shampoo. Strawberries, is it?"

"Stalker," Rose laughs, pulling back. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you dragged me out this way just to get my clothes off."

"Bit of a convoluted plot, don't you think?"

"Just a bit," Rose replies, nodding. "Especially when you could just ask."

The Doctor makes a show of narrowing his eyes at her. "Now that's the hypothermia talking."

"Just a bit," Rose says again, but—and maybe the Doctor's just imagining it—her eyes twinkle a bit with mischief this time.

"Oh, and thanks," she's saying now, her gaze softening.

"For what?"

"For all this. For saving me."

"Any time," the Doctor replies.

And this, right here, this seems like a prime moment to slide out from under the duvet, hand Rose her clothes and run off to the en suite to don his, but strangely, the Doctor doesn't move. He doesn't even want to. His body is perfectly content to just lie here, drinking in the heat from Rose's now-warm body pressed up against his in his bed. His body has no desire to leave this cocoon right now—maybe not ever.

Obviously that won't do. But he can spare a few moments, at least.

"Did you…" Rose starts to ask, then hesitates, biting her lip.

"Did I what?"

"Did you sort of…kiss my neck, earlier?"

The Doctor feels his cheeks flush pink with warmth, but fortunately—blessedly—if Rose notices, she doesn't say anything. "Checking your temperature," he says; it's mostly true, anyway. "If you haven't got a thermometer, your lips are the next best thing."

Rose licks her lips at that, and the Doctor forces his eyes to stay fixed on hers, not to be drawn to the motion. He watches her scoot closer to him until her face passes out of sight, her head tucking beneath his chin as she snuggles deeper into his embrace. Moments later, the Doctor nearly jumps out of his skin at the sensation of her lips on his neck, soft and warm.

He swallows so hard his Adam's apple bobs with the force of it.

"Rubbish," says Rose, her breath ghosting over his throat. "I can't tell anything. You're full of it."

The Doctor lets out a breathless laugh. "Your lips aren't as sensitive as mine."

Pulling back, Rose looks at him, arching an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Want to bet?" she asks.

The Doctor awakens with a start.

Wait—awakens…?

Consciousness filters back in slowly, his vision clearing a little with every rapid blink of his eyes. The interior of the cabin greets him, dark now in the nighttime, illuminated only by the soft flicker of the fire in the fireplace. The firelight dances across the room, painting the floorboards and the slope of Rose's neck and shoulder, lighting the halo of her hair and gilding her eyelashes gold.

She must have turned over in her sleep at some point—her back is to him, now, but one of his arms is still slung over her, his hand resting gently on the small swell of her stomach. The Doctor moves his hand to his throat, like he might be able to feel the ghost of where Rose kissed him. But he already knows she didn't; already knows it was all a dream. Damn, but his body must be tired, must be downright bloody exhausted if it's weak enough to sleep that heavily.

He returns his hand to its place on Rose's stomach, hugging her close. Her core temperature has stabilized, but it's still a little too low for his comfort. The Doctor sighs impatiently. Fine. He'll spare his body a few more moments of sleep before he gets up. A few moments to help Rose's body warm itself just a little more, and then he's absolutely done. He's got things to do. Important things. Survival things. Things that have nothing to do with silky hair or soft skin or softer mouths or curves pressing gently into inconvenient places.

"Rose," he whispers in her ear, hoping to wake her, but she just arches against him with a quiet hum.

Sod it. Tired or not, he can't stay in here. What sort of lecherous old fool would he be, taking advantage of Rose in this vulnerable state? He disgusts himself.

The Doctor lifts the blankets, sitting up so he can leave, but at a quiet whimper from Rose, he stops. Glancing down, he notices her shivering; even though the blankets are nice and warm, she still misses his body heat, he realizes. She still needs it.

With a deep breath, he slides back under the covers, this time with his back to Rose. Yes. That'll be fine. Why didn't he think of it earlier? Back-to-back. That's comfortable, warm. Safe.

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift off again, lured back to sleep by the metronome of Rose's soft breathing behind him.

"Huh," says Rose, her eyebrows piqued in surprise. "I didn't know you got like that."

"Like what?" the Doctor asks, and it's only a little defensive.

Rose shrugs. "You know. Frustrated."

The Doctor shifts uncomfortably on the jumpseat. "Well, normally I don't," he replies, crossing his arms. "But you, you've mucked it all up, haven't you? Put a blemish on my perfect track record."

"And here you said you'd danced before."

"I have," the Doctor says indignantly. "I've usually just got better control than this."

A sly grin crosses Rose's lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You shouldn't. It's bloody inconvenient, is what it is. Not to mention embarrassing."

"Oh," says Rose, her face falling. "Sorry."

"I didn't mean it like that," the Doctor replies. "It's got nothing to do with you, everything to do with me. I should be better than this. Above it."

Rose's warm eyes go unusually cool. "Right," she says. "So is there something wrong with me, then? Cos that's the sort of thing I want? Does that make me dirty, or bad?"

"No. Of course not. Don't be daft."

"So why's it different for you?"

The Doctor doesn't reply. He doesn't have any words to offer, nothing besides It's just animal instinct or It's something other people do or You deserve better than this or Because I haven't got the right—nothing that doesn't sound like an excuse, or hopelessly pathetic and self-pitying. But there are Reasons, big important Reasons with a capital "R," even if he can't quite remember what they may be.

"It just is," he tries to say, but before he can get the words out, Rose stands up from the jumpseat.

"Tell you what," she says. "Tell me when to stop, and I'll stop. Okay? I'll stop any time you say, no matter what, no questions asked. But if you enjoy yourself—well, if you enjoy yourself, just let it happen. All right?"

She glances up at him when he doesn't immediately reply, searching his face for approval. "All right?"

The Doctor licks lips that have gone dry.

"Yes," he says hoarsely, pulling himself back to consciousness.

No one replies.

It's still dark in the cabin, and he is still entangled on the pallet with Rose, and she is still asleep. But evidently they both turned over at some point, drawn together by a force like gravity, because they're facing each other again, their arms wrapped around each other, Rose's face buried in the Doctor's chest. One of his legs is pushed between hers and dimly, it occurs to him just how very exposed she is.

Exposure—right. Yes. He desperately latches on to the idea. He's still taking care of her. And come to think of it, they're probably both dehydrated. Yes-that should be the next task to cross off the list.

Shaking himself, the Doctor clambers out of the pallet, ignoring the shock of the cold cabin air on his skin. He finds a cup in the cabin's meager pantry and fills it with water, once, twice, three times, downing it in a single gulp each and every time like he can wash the dreams away. He fills it up once more and carries it to Rose, gently tilting her head back as he presses the cup to her closed mouth.

"Come on, Rose," he says quietly.

Her eyes flutter, but don't open, and neither does her mouth. The Doctor's hearts sink.

"C'mon, love," he pleads.

Soon enough, Rose's tongue darts out lazily to taste the water droplets on her lips, and one hand weakly closes around his, guiding the cup to her mouth. She drinks, so much slower than he did, until the cup is empty and she slumps back on the blankets. The Doctor brushes her hair away from her face, studies her blank expression for just a moment before taking the cup to the sink.

She should be fine now. She's technically stable enough; her core temperature is safe and the blankets and her own body can carry her the rest of the way. He'll just pull his clothes back on, and—

Ah. The Doctor gingerly fingers his trousers to find that they're still damp. No good, not unless he wants to end up with hypothermia himself. If things really went that far south, he could always regenerate, he supposes, but that would probably be a little difficult to explain to Rose after she woke up to the face of a stranger. He really should have that conversation with her soon, he thinks.

Cursing himself for ever even thinking of bringing them to this gods-damned planet, the Doctor slips under the blankets once more, careful to lie on his back, his arms clamped tightly by his sides. He can do this. They're just sharing body heat. Nothing special about it, no matter what Jackie's trashy old romance novels might say.

Not that he's read any of those trashy novels himself. Because he hasn't.

(And even if he had, it would only be for research purposes. Strictly educational.)

"That what they're calling it these days?" Rose asks between kisses. "Educational?"

"Does it matter, what it's called?" the Doctor shoots back, his fingers tangling in her hair as her lips press to his, sending tendrils of electricity sparking all through his body.

Rose pulls back just long enough to shoot him a mischievous glance. "Nope," she says. The way she pops her 'p' at the end sounds oddly familiar, but he can't place it.

Her mouth is gorgeously hot and wet as it moves against his, but the Doctor stops Rose with his hands on her shoulders and her name on his lips.

"Rose."

She pulls back again, eyes dark and questioning beneath the fringe of her lashes. "Want me to stop?"

"This isn't about me," the Doctor tells her. "It isn't about what I want."

"You think I don't want this too?"

"I think you're hurt, and you're not thinking clearly."

Rose sits back, and the Doctor can tell she's considering, her eyes gone thoughtful.

Hells, but she's young. Much too young for him, in a way that's only got a little to do with years.

"I'm dreaming of you right now," she says softly, her eyes losing focus. Her brow furrows in concentration. "I'm dreaming of this."

The Doctor shakes his head. "You're just telling me what I want to hear. It isn't even you right now—it's my thoughts, arranging themselves to look like you. You're a dream—my dream. A projection." He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "A hallucination."

"A madness shared by two?"

He glares at her. "Rose doesn't talk like that."

"I talk however I like. You of all people should know that."

Something about her gaze is too bright; it hurts his eyes. The Doctor looks away.

"Look, if you don't want to do it, that's fine. You won't hurt my feelings. But be honest with me. There's no need to get all angsty and man-painy," Rose teases. "It's just sex, Doctor."

"No, it's not," the Doctor argues softly. "It's emotions, history, baggage, feelings, wrapped up in a reason to get as physically close to each other as two beings can be. It's open, it's vulnerable, it's raw. It's the knowledge that you don't deserve things like that; that other people deserve far better. It's knowing that you're not nearly as good and right as other people think you are, no matter how much you'd like to believe it, no matter how much you wish it was true. It's the fear that you'll hurt someone, that you'll burn them just like you do everything else, everything you touch. It isn't just anything."

Rose smiles, her teeth flashing in the console light. They're sharp, feral. Like a wolf's.

"You think you'll burn me?" she asks, and the Doctor's gaze follows her as she stands from the grating, the light around her growing brighter and brighter until she glows white-hot. Rose's hand drifts up to his cheek, the texture of her clinging to him in such stark, sharp relief that he can feel every crease of her palm, the galactic whorls of her fingerprints, the blood pulsing just beneath paper-thin flesh. Her touch is ice and fire and for a moment, her eyes glitter gold.

"Oh, love," she murmurs, and her voice rushes through him, a buzz that ignites him from his scalp to the soles of his feet. "You really have no idea, do you?"

She presses a kiss to his forehead and warmth floods him, suffuses his being, pumping through his veins. His body is a starving tree, its roots stretching and desperate for water, and even though she doesn't offer it—she isn't a well, not by a long shot; she is magma beneath the earth, yellow-bright and scalding-hot—he wants to reach for her anyway. A well may quench, but a fire will burn away his sins.

He melts.

She's not cold anymore—she's feverish, her skin burning against his.

Panting for breath, the Doctor tries to pull away, but one of Rose's legs has slung itself over him, trapping his body beside hers. Suddenly he's keenly aware of every inch of her, of her inferno of a mouth, as it presses fiery kisses to his collarbone, his throat, his jaw.

"Rose," the Doctor whispers, his voice rough. But he can't—he's got to untangle himself from this, got to regain some distance, retreat to safe ground—he doesn't even know if she's fully awake, doesn't even know if he is, for that matter—

As if she can hear his thoughts (did he speak them aloud? Did he moan them?), Rose's eyes flutter open, glazed and hooded and utterly pitch black.

"My Doctor," she breathes, leaning close until her lips press against his.

He gasps in surprise and she takes advantage of the opening, her tongue slipping into his mouth. And it's…

Gods, it's bloody intoxicating.

His head fills with her, floods with her taste and her warmth—for all that she's burning now, she still tastes of cold and snow, that crisp winter sting that hits in your nostrils and your teeth, but there's something else underneath, too, something slick with pheromones and joy and pure, unfettered need, and oh, there's still time, he could still pull away, he could still stop this, he could—

(But he won't. Of course he won't. When could he ever deny her anything?)

Hands cupping her face, the Doctor kisses Rose fiercely, lips and tongue and teeth, heedless of any scorch-marks that may mar his skin.

(He can't do this for himself, after all; it feels wrong, somehow, no matter how badly she seems to want it, no matter how strongly she seems to want him—something he'll never, ever be able to understand, not if he lives another thousand years. But he can still give her what she wants; he can do this for her.)

She pulls back long enough to cry out his name—

"Doctor?"

Silence floods his ears with a pins-and-needles rush and slowly, Rose swims into his vision, her face pinched with concern. Chest heaving, the Doctor opens his mouth to ask what's going on, but no words come out; just as well, he's not quite sure what they would be, anyway.

(They're both naked, but it wasn't—they didn't—they never—)

(Christ, just how tired is he?)

"Doctor?" Rose repeats. "You were moaning in your sleep—sounded like you were having a nightmare."

He laughs weakly, the reality of the situation filtering in like cold water splashed down his back. "Not quite," he says, willing his body to calm, silently thankful that it hasn't done anything embarrassing to give him away.

"Are you all right?"

He forces his eyes to focus on her, and seems to realize, for the first time, exactly what he's looking at: Rose Tyler, wrapped in a blanket with him, awake and well, whole-bodied and warm.

Alive.

Relief washes over him, settling his hearts and calming his lungs. His muscles relax like a tree unfurling its branches and leaves, stretching toward the spring sun. This isn't a dream; this is real. She's alive.

"I should be the one asking that question," he says, with what he knows is the universe's most daft false grin. "What are you worried about me for?"

"Just thought it might've been a little hard on you, having to take care of me like that," Rose replies.

Suspicious, the Doctor studies her face, searching it for any hint that she means what he thinks she could mean—but of course she doesn't, does she? She's only talking about the cold.

(The other stuff, it didn't happen, did it? Any of it. None of it was real. No matter how much it felt like it.

But he doesn't feel disappointed.

Not even a little bit.)

"What about you, are you all right now?" he asks. "Back up to snuff?"

"No longer a Rose-sicle, so I'm pretty pleased about that. Though I'm confused about where all my clothes went…"

The Doctor blanches, the blood draining from his face. "It was medically necessary—"

A wink from Rose lets him know she's teasing, and he glowers at her, his mouth snapping shut. But he doesn't really mind; she seems to delight in making him feel flustered, and he is more than happy to oblige in anything that pleases her, whether it's the stuff of reality or dreams.

Hesitating briefly, Rose leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek, leaving both of their cheeks flame-red afterward.

"Thank you, by the way," she says, a little shy now as she bites her lower lip. "For taking care of me."

His smile softens, growing genuine. "Any time," he says.

(His cheek burns where she kissed it.)

NOTE: Hopefully this is something you'll never have to deal with irl, but just in case-please don't use this fic as a basis for actual hypothermia treatment! I strongly urge you to do your own research regarding the best techniques for gentle rewarming; for one thing, as compelling as ideas like lukewarm baths or skin-to-skin contact can be for fic purposes, there's some disagreement about whether those techniques are helpful (or even safe), and for another, there are different steps required for different hypothermic stages. WebMD offers a basic outline that you may find helpful, but again-please seek out your own research in the event that you find yourself needing to help someone with this condition!

Thanks, and stay safe! 3