Title: Fever Dream
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Owen Harper
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Rating: PG-13
Table: Buffet 1, fc_smorgasbord
Prompt: 6, Fever
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor or Owen Harper, unfortunately. Please do not sue.

***

Owen looked down at the Doctor with a worried frown, wishing that he knew what to do. With all of his medical training, he'd never had to deal with any kind of alien illness before, and he had no idea what he should do in this kind of a situation.

The Doctor was going back and forth between consciousness and a sort of fever dream; he'd managed to gasp a few words here and there that had been lucid, but Owen didn't know when the next few moments of clarity would come to the Time Lord.

The only thing that the Doctor had been able to tell him was that the fever would abate in a few hours; still, he had no way of knowing just how long it would last, or if it could be potentially fatal to the other man. And there was something else that worried him even more.

Was this fever contagious in any way? He didn't care if he fell ill, really; what terrified him was that he and the Doctor could both be incapacitated, trapped on a planet that neither of them knew, where any kind of enemy might be able to close in on them.

If that were to happen, Owen didn't see any way out for them. The Tardis wouldn't allow anyone to get inside her, of course; but that slightly comforting thought wouldn't do them much good if neither of them could get the ship away from this planet to a place of relative safety.

He gazed down at the Doctor's face, feeling his heart contract in his chest. The thought that he could lose this man hurt more than losing the women who'd been in his life in past ever could. The Time Lord meant more to him than anyone else ever had.

Picking up a cold cloth from the beside table, he ran it gently over the Doctor's face, wiping away the droplets of sweat from his brow. The other man's eyes were closed, his head turning from side to side, incoherent whispers coming from his lips.

Those dark eyes flew open with a suddenness that startled Owen, focusing on the young doctor's face with an intensity that was almost unnerving. The Doctor's thin hand grasped his, the Gallifreyan's grip so strong it was almost painful.

"It's an Atatraxian fever, Owen," he rasped, his voice sounding husky and cracked from lack of use. "It should only last a few hours -- but it gets worse before it gets better. The fever will break -- and it won't spread to you. It's not contagious, so you're safe."

Owen nodded, wondering how the Time Lord could possibly know that he'd been worried about that. He shouldn't really be surprised, he told himself; the Doctor was a telepath, after all, and he seemed to be able to read Owen's mind quite easily.

"Have I been raving?" the Doctor asked him, those dark eyes meeting his with a piercing stare that Owen couldn't look away from. Slowly, he nodded, even though something within him wanted to assure the Time Lord that he'd been quiet.

"You haven't given away any deep dark secrets, if that's what you're worried about," Owen said softly, placing one hand on the Doctor's brow. He was trying to lighten the moment, to make himself worry less. If the Doctor could talk coherently, maybe he was getting better.

"I don't have any secrets to give away," the Doctor whispered, his voice raspy. "I don't keep secrets from you, Owen. If there's anything you don't know that you want to know, just ask. I'll tell you. I want you to know everything about me. Everything."

The Time Lord was sinking into delirium again; his words were becoming less coherent, his dark eyes closing slowly. Owen could feel the grip on his hand slackening; in a few moments, the Doctor's hand had fallen to the covers, his breath rasping in his throat.

The labored breathing worried Owen; what was he going to do if the Time Lord couldn't catch his breath, or started choking? Stop that, he told himself sternly, giving himself a mental shake. He knew how to deal with things like that. He'd done it often enough before.

Just because the Doctor had two hearts and a second respiratory system, that didn't mean that Owen couldn't help him if he needed it. The Time Lord had told his companion several things about how his body worked, and Owen thought he had a decent knowledge of Gallifreyan physiology.

How long was this fever going to last? Owen glanced at the watch on his wrist; the Doctor had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last few hours. The Time Lord hadn't told him how long this could possibly last, so he had no idea how much longer it would go on.

At least the had the comfort of knowing that it wasn't contagious; that was some help. He would be in good enough shape to help the Doctor if the Time Lord needed it; he could watch over his lover until the other man's fever broke.

Owen picked up the cold cloth again, laying it on the Doctor's forehead. The Time Lord had begun to mutter again; his head was turning from side to side, the words tumbling from his lips disjointed, though Owen could make out a few here and there.

"Owen," the Time Lord murmured. "Can't let him .... get sick .... don't want him to .... hurt. Love him .... can't let this .... spread to him. Don't worry .... I'm all right .... back on my feet .... in no time ...." The murmurs ceased after a few moments, as the Doctor lapsed into incoherent mumbling.

The young man blinked as he stared at the Doctor, surprised by the words that the Time Lord had uttered. He was caught in the grip of a fever, true, but Owen had no doubt that the words coming from him were sincere. After all, he couldn't hide those feelings in the state he was in.

Owen raised a hand to his face, wiping away the few tears that had spilled over. The Doctor hadn't said those words to him when he was in a coherent state, but the Time Lord obviously felt them. And Owen certainly couldn't deny his feelings for the other man.

If he didn't know better, he would tell himself that those words had been a dream, that he was starting to develop the same kind of fever that the Doctor was in the throes of. But that wasn't possible; he wasn't feverish, and he'd heard those softly spoken words.

Owen wanted to blurt his own words out now, to tell the Doctor that he loved him and that he meant more to him than anyone else ever had. But that would be useless; the Time Lord was back in his fever dream, and he wouldn't hear what was being said.

When the Doctor awakened, he was going to tell his lover just how he felt, Owen told himself, his gaze resting on the Doctor's face. He was going to say those three words that lodged inside his throat every time he wanted them to come out.

He should have said those words already. He should have told the Doctor how he felt when he'd first realized it; after all, if anyone knew how much regret a person could feel over wasting whatever precious time they might have with someone, he did.

He'd just have to wait for this fever dream to end, for the Doctor to be in a receptive state where he would understand what Owen was saying to him. And hopefully, Owen thought, his spirits rising as he looked down at the man he loved, the Doctor would return those words.

Owen settled down to wait, feeling reassured by what the Doctor had told him. This fever hopefully wouldn't last much longer -- and once the Doctor had recovered from it, he intended to tell the Time Lord just how he felt. It was past time to open his heart and soul, and he was more than ready.

***