AN: Can be read on own. Technically it's part of a series Endless Paradox which I haven't started posting yet—I couldn't resist writing this out after mentioning the incident in one of the chapters. But I don't know when that will be ready, since it requires lots of planning, and I wanted to post SOMETHING for the anniversary.

Happy anniversary Doctor Who!

Doctor Soup by Alexannah

Rose felt utterly terrible. Her throat was sore, her nose bunged up and her eyes kept watering.

"I can't believe you don't have anything that can cure a cold," she grumbled as she heard the Doctor come back to her room, armed with more tissues. "I thought Van Statten said there was a cure; if he could get one why—"

"I have got cures," the Doctor said, passing her a new box and sitting down on the end of her bed. "But as with most medicines, they're best saved for bad cases."

"This is bad, look at my nose. It's red raw."

He looked at her and winced. "That's not what I meant, Rose. If you took the cure every time you had a cold, you'd eventually become immune to it. Then one day years down the line, when getting a simple cold could be lethal to your health, you wouldn't be able to stop it."

"Oh." Rose paused. "I see. So you're just going to let me suffer."

"Don't be so over-dramatic."

"Do you get colds, Doctor?"

"From time to time," he admitted.

"Well next time you have one, we'll see how you like it when I'm totally insensitive."

"I'm not being insensitive. If I was, I wouldn't have a nice pot of soup brewing in the kitchen for you," he said with an amused smile.

"What kind of soup?" Rose asked curiously.

"Doctor soup."

Rose pulled a face. "If that's your severed hand with stock and a few carrots, forget it. You Time Lords are sick."

"Rose! That's disgusting! Being ill makes you grumpy. And very gullible."

"So what is Doctor soup if it's not bits of the Doctor?"

He sighed. "I named it after me. Obviously. It's a recipe I've developed over the centuries using a mixture of ingredients from a number of planets. Works wonders for any non-life-threatening illness; you'll feel much better for it. Though after your attitude, I've half a mind not to give it to you …"

He made Rose beg and plead for several minutes before giving in and going to get the soup. When he came back with it, however, Rose frowned.

"It's purple."

"So is beetroot," the Doctor pointed out.

"There's beetroot in it?"

"No, but a similar vegetable from Jaharrned."

"It's not even really purple, it's more … mauve."

"It's not dangerous, Rose, just try it," the Doctor said with a smile. "I promise you'll feel better for it."

Rose took a hesitant sip from the spoon, expecting the worst. To her surprise it slipped down easily, pleasantly tingling her tongue and warming her up from the inside out.

"Wow, that's amazing."

"Told you," the Doctor said with a smile.

"I feel better already," Rose said in wonder.

"There's another bowlful on the hob if you want more afterwards."

"Wow, yes please!"

After two bowls of soup, Rose slept soundly, and when she woke, she hardly felt ill at all.

"I could eat that stuff every day," she said cheerfully when the Doctor brought her her breakfast.

"You couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Same reason I didn't give you the cold cure; you don't want to get used to it. Doctor soup is strictly for illnesses only."

"Doctor, I don't feel well."

He eyed her suspiciously, and Rose's heart hammered. He wasn't onto her, was he? True, he could only see her head and the top of her shoulders, but still, he was the Doctor. He always figured things out that she would never have guessed.

She surreptitiously turned the electric blanket to maximum.

"What's wrong?" the Doctor asked.

"Well, you're the Doctor."

"I meant, what makes you think you're sick."

"Oh. I feel all hot and shivery." She shivered to make her point.

He put a hand to her forehead, then took her temperature properly. Rose was beginning to feel quite unwell with all the heat under her quilt, and wished he would get on with it.

"Well, you're temperature's above normal. Quite far above, too," he murmured. "Oh, dear."

Rose swallowed. Maybe she had overdone the heat. She only wanted him to think she was a little poorly, she didn't want him to think there was something seriously wrong.

"Oh, that's not good," he murmured again. "Rose, I think you should come to the medbay."

Ah. That wasn't going to fly. The moment she moved her covers he'd see the entire ship's collection of hot water bottles packed around her body.

She shook her head quickly. "No! no, I … don't think I can. I don't … feel strong enough." She turned pleading eyes on him. "Could you just bring the stuff you need here?"

He considered her for a moment. Rose knew he could never resist that face, but still she couldn't breathe until he nodded and left.

Once he was safely out of the room—she had at least five minutes before his return—she lifted the covers and pushed all the hot water bottles down the end of the bed. She'd just laid back down and pulled the covers up again when he re-entered, pushing a trolley of equipment.

"Right then," the Doctor said, business-like. "Firstly, Rose, I need to bring your temperature down."

"It's not that bad, is it?" Rose said warily.

"I'm afraid so. You're going to need a good dose of anti-fever-ine …"

Rose's eyes widened in alarm as the Doctor pulled out the biggest syringe she had ever seen in her entire life.

"Wait!" She sat up quickly. "Don't, I'm not sick!"

He smiled at her satisfactorily, and she glared at him. "You knew all along, you rotten swine. I bet there's not even such a thing as anti-fever-ine."

"Rose, I am a doctor, I do know the difference between a real fever and one induced by …" he eyed her in curiosity. "What did you do, anyway?"

Rose lifted the covers to show him the electric blanket and the piles of bottles, and he laughed and laughed. "You know if I'm not giving you enough attention, you only have to say so."

"That wasn't it."

"Oh, no?"

"No. I wanted some more Doctor soup."

He sighed. "Why am I not surprised."

"Can I have some? Please? Just one bowl?"

"No."

The Doctor, suspicious man that he was, had insisted on running the tests on her several times before he would agree that Rose was genuinely sick this time. He declared her taken with giraffe pox it seemed with deepest reluctance, and made Rose beg and plead for at least half an hour this time before he agreed to make the soup. She knew he only agreed because he couldn't stand to see her suffer.

Rose allowed herself to smile in satisfaction once he had left. She felt pretty lousy, but giraffe pox wasn't serious and if she had to put up with a few spots, a yo-yo-ing temperature and a sore throat for a few days for the sake of a couple of bowls of Doctor soup, it was worth it. The whole reason she had ignored his warnings about straying too close to the gin-raffe-chicks.

When the Doctor returned, it was with a welcome bowl of mauve soup, and Rose thanked him profusely before spooning a mouthful in.

"Aaarrggh!"

"Is something wrong, Rose?" the Doctor asked in a much-too-innocent voice.

"Argh!" Rose seized the glass of water on her bedside table and gulped it down. "What did you do to it?" she gasped, her whole mouth painfully burning.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I have a different recipe for people who get themselves sick on purpose. The secret ingredient is half a pound of Frascian chillies …"

The End