Her flat is a mess when he steps out of the Tardis and the Doctor frowns at it because he's never known Clara to leave her clothes lying about, or even a magazine out of place, and he glances up when he hears the cough, raising his Sonic and buzzing the air before tilting his head back with understanding. Influenza, he reads. Not a strong strain, but it would be a dozy, he knew, beginning a walk towards her bedroom with a sigh and a smirk as he pockets his Sonic.
"Clara, are you decent?" He calls, hearing the small moan before the laugh. "That wasn't quite an answer, or at least no one I could decipher – Are you decent? Can I enter?"
He stands just outside of her bedroom, just far enough back that he can't see her bed, but he can see the mess of tissues and a set of sweatpants lying in a heap on the ground. "I'm decent, Doctor, but I'm also sick, you might not want to…" he steps inside with a large smile, ready to make her laugh.
And she does. Clara gives him a pitiful whine of a giggle as he frowns and moves closer to her while she rubs at her tiny nose with a tissue. He can see the small bin next to her bed, filled halfway with fluffy globs of paper in which he knows are remnants of coughs and sneezes and he grimaces at it before shifting away, hands clapping together to gesture at her, "So, bit sick."
"Bit sick," she repeats on a laugh.
He smiles down at her reddened face and disheveled hair and he offers, "Can I get you anything?"
She shakes her head, "I'm so sorry, Doctor. You could come back next week, I'm fairly certain I'll be past this by then."
With a tilt of his head, he states, "Answer to the wrong question," then he bent forward to continue, "The question wasn't whether you were up for a bit of travelling; the question was – Clara Oswald, can I get you anything?"
Her lips crumple into a tired smile, "Doctor, you should go. You'll get sick," then she adds, "Can you get sick from a human flu?"
"No," he laughed, then he considers, "Well, possibly not." Then he frowns, "I don't know, quite honestly, not really something I think about often – suppose I should; suppose I could."
Gesturing at the door, Clara laughs, a laugh that dissolves into a cough before she manages to choke out, "Doctor, you should go before I infect you."
"Nonsense," he replies with a wave. Then he lifts the bin and begins to pluck up random tissues from the ground, "Gonna chuck this…" and to the look she gives him, he whines, "I know, bigger basket in the kitchen. I won't just open a window… that would be littering."
"You don't have to do this," Clara tells him, her voice awkwardly nasal.
"No," he points, "I don't have to," and then he departs with the bin, heading back into the kitchen where he swings open the cabinet to find her regular bin filled as well. Toggling his head, he groans as he pulls the bag out to tie it off, "Oh, alright."
He returns to Clara still in bed, staring up curiously at him before she asks lightly, "Did you just do what I think you just did?"
"We'll not discuss the state of the main bins in your flat," before moving to fluff her pillow before asking, "Have you had something to eat?"
"Doctor," Clara laughs, "Seriously, go do your travel thing. I'll be fine here."
"Well," he begins, "Is your dad coming over to watch you?"
Clara smiles, sniffling before replying, "I don't need my dad. I'm sort of a grown up. We do ridiculous grown up things like look after ourselves when we're sick."
"That's the silliest thing I've ever heard," the Doctor spits, "You're sick and someone should look after you."
"You're going to look after me, Doctor?" Clara asks lightly.
Glancing around, he smiles back at her deviously and allows, "How about a tea? A nice warm tea and a nice long nap."
"Can't sleep," she groans in response, "My nose is all stuffed and my head hurts."
Lightly tapping her leg, he nods to repeat, "Nice warm tea," and he heads into the kitchen. She's leaning back against the wall, mouth slightly open, eyes closed when he returns and for a moment he thinks maybe she's fallen asleep, but she immediately shifts when he enters the room.
She reaches for the cup and the Doctor scratches the back of his head as she slowly sips it down, brow furrowing in a way that makes him wonder whether it's any good. His tea could take a turn for the worse if he wasn't careful. But she tilts it back and then brings the cup back into her lap with a light laugh, nodding at it and then telling the Doctor plainly, "First thing that's gone down and stayed down."
Taking the cup, the Doctor urges her to lay on the pillow and he takes a moment to brush his fingers over her cheek before cupping them around her neck, both blazing hot. "Promise you'll start feeling better soon."
She smiles, a shy smile that turns his cheeks pink before she admits, "I've tried lying down; everything stuffs up even worse."
"Elevation," he calls, turning in a circle with one finger raised in the air, trying to find a second pillow before he realizes there isn't one. And he frowns at her because how did she not have a second pillow; one could never have enough pillows. "You can't sleep against the wall, that would be terrible for your back, not to mention your neck," he shakes his head and then he kicks off his shoes and swings his jacket off, dropping it on the back of a chair before hopping into the bed and then grimacing.
"It's alright," she tells him through closed eyes and he can see the sleepiness seeping into her features as the tea warms her belly.
The Doctor presses his back to the wall and he puts an arm over her shoulder and he grins when she leans easily into him, nestling herself into his side. In the morning she might argue it was the sickness that made her do it. He smiles as she sneezes, covering her nose with a tissue and he looks around the bed to find the box to hand her another as he tosses the first towards the bin, missing.
With a chuckle, Clara asks, "Are you going to stay here all night?"
"Yes," he tells her, "I am."
"You, being all domestic – you understand I'm going to have higher expectations from now on."
Laughing lightly, he sighs, "Yes, I know."
"Might ask you to take the bins out every so often."
"Oi, it's your flat," the Doctor teases as she laughs.
"Not pushing it," Clara breaths, "Gotcha."
He presses a kiss into her warm forehead when she meets his eye and he begins to tell her a story about Gallifrey, a story about a time when he'd been sick and stuck at home while his friends had been out in the fields. A nice summery day, he explains, watching her eyelids droop. A summery day he wasn't sure he remembered correctly then because he could recall a nurse with large brown eyes and flowing brown hair and a cheeky grin who had teased him about the redness of his nose. A nurse with a ridiculous giggle who told him stories and fed him soup until he was well enough to depart without a second glance at her.
"So of course I'd stay all night," he allows as he shifts her to lay her head in his lap. "Because I'm fairly certain – as certain as the delusional and incredibly faded memories of a thirty six year old child could be – that you've already done the same for me."