"Impossible," he spits after she tells him, but he watches the way her eyes are dilating the longer she watches him, one hand gripping her back, the other curled underneath the bulge of her stomach. The Doctor takes in the terrified breaths and the frown on her reddened face as she begins to slowly shake her head, wanting to tell him that no, it wasn't impossible.
She'd gone into labor.
And of course she hadn't told him. Clara knew they were parked in the stone age of some distant planet, the Tardis recharging her fuel cells, and she knew there wasn't anything to do but wait. Of course, he thought as he turned to begin tugging on levers and slamming at buttons, of course she thought it would take longer.
"Doctor," she calls softly, voice wavering as he punches the machine and shouts out, recoiling in pain and growling at the knobs that refuses to budge. "Just tell me," Clara states.
"We could leave the planet, but she's not got enough charge to leave the time and there's nothing else advanced enough in this time to offer you the facilities you require." His voice is carefully even, but his blood is boiling with fear.
Bowing his head, he folds his arms against the console and presses his forehead against the thick velvety fabric of his jacket just before he feels the cool touch of her fingers, slipping over his shoulders as she half-hugs him to tell him, "I don't require facilities, Doctor; I just require you."
He turns, managing a smile as he watches her grin at him. Confident in his abilities, he knows. Absolutely confident she needs nothing else to deliver their child except him at her side, and he nods slowly, beginning to straighten as her hands drop back to her belly, a small grimace breaking through her facade as he smiles.
"Five minutes, you say," he repeats as she nods. "Cutting it rather close, dear."
Clara manages a laugh, "Well, we work better under pressure anyways, don't we, Do..." his name is cut off as she bends into him, left hand reaching out and finding his, ready for her to hold.
Watching her take long and steady breaths, lips pinched together, eyes shut, the Doctor finds himself smiling just a bit in spite of the way his hearts are drumming. He thinks about the way child birth is always portrayed in the media on Earth. All of the cursing and the screaming and the psychosis in the delivery room, he thinks as he begins to lead her away from the console.
There would always be the women who respond in that way; their body being pushed to their limits, it was only natural some would lash out. But not Clara. Slowly her eyes open and her grip on his hand loosens and she laughs lightly as they slowly move through the corridors towards a bright room in which they'd each bandaged their fair share of wounds. He helps her up onto the bed and he kisses her forehead as touches her knee.
"Let's see how this impossible child is doing, shall we?" He questions lightly, listening to her huff of a laugh as he strips himself of the velvet jacket and shifts to the foot of the bed. The Doctor watches her raise her legs, and he bends to check her progress before scratching at his forehead and then rubbing a hand over his face.
"This baby's comin' fast," she groans, hitching the dress she's wearing up and over her abdomen to stroke at the taut olive skin there, poking with a frown at the half-outted belly button she hates and he loves.
"Yes, very fast," the Doctor replies swiftly, before telling her bluntly, "Your water's just broken."
"What?" Clara utters weakly, her chest rising and falling quickly as the Doctor drops his hands to her knees, rubbing them gently to try to ease her fears, but he knows it's no use – and there is no time.
Before she can question it, he's moved forward again, two fingers delicately testing as he informs her, "Clara, you really should have told me sooner."
"I thought I would have more time," she argues angrily, wincing against his prodding before asking, "What are you doing?"
"You're fully dilated, Clara, and 100% effaced, which means... which means," he laughs, hands finding comfortable spots on her swollen ankles before he shakes his head, lowering it and then looking up to her with reddened eyes before telling her softly, and with an excited lifting of his brow, "Push."
Her head is turning from side to side slowly and her mouth is dropping open. The Doctor can see her bottom lip trembling slightly and he immediately rushes to her side, arms wrapped around her as she continues to hug her stomach, telling him, "No, no, it's too quick. Doctor, it's too quick."
"Clara," he laughs, "Clara, this baby is just eager to see us! All of this time wondering about the voices they've been hearing and now there's a light at the end of the tunnel!"
She's nodding, but she's also shaking, and the Doctor understands she's in shock. Not the shock of having a child, but the physical shock of child birth, and he lays a palm to the tightened muscles of her stomach, feels the slow movements of the baby inside, and he kisses her temple as her eyes close, dropping heavy tears over her cheeks.
Moving back to look between her legs, he caresses her thighs and gives her a confident nod, "Clara, when you feel the contraction coming on, you push with all of your might." On a large smile, he adds, "Time we settle that bet."
"I still think the baby will take after you," she offers on a shaky laugh, hands reaching to grab hold of the mattress on either side of her, watching the Doctor pull a tray closer to him, examining the surgical items there and accepting that they would be enough.
He hopes he needs nothing else.
"Nah," he breaths as he watches her begin to tense, her eyes shutting as she bears down and begins to push, "I still think they'll take after you." The Doctor drops to wait, his own breathing held as he hears her straining, seeing the beginnings of a head beginning to peek, and she gasps, crying out softly and dropping to her elbows.
"Oh, God," she whimpers, and he can see the pain in her face as she continues to take even breaths.
His fingers hover over that glimpse of their child's head and he exhales, feeling his eyes spill over as he looks to her and tells her on barely a whisper, "Clara, I thought they'd have hair, because you have far too much, but they're bald. Our baby is bald."
She laughs out and meets his stare with a smile, and he watches her shift back up to grip the bed, a small look of fear shaking the temporary joy out of her eyes as she begins to push again in response to her body's urge to. And in a breath, that tiny speck of head quickly becomes a full face he can stare into and before he can shout, "They have your nose, thank the stars," he's holding a whole new body in his hands.
A blood speckled pale body that wiggles and thrusts and stretches against his chest as he holds him securely to clean away the muck from his nostrils and mouth, looking back to the umbilical cord still throbbing between mother and child with life. The Doctor takes a long breath and shifts the quivering child in his arms, laughing when he begins to wail as he raises him through the air to pass to Clara, who takes him with a shaky cry.
"A boy, Clara," the Doctor tells her, watching her cradle their son, her eyes and hands examining him over. He smile as she laughs through her tears, her touches delicate on the newborn's skin, counting his finger and toes and feeling the heavy heartbeats within his tiny chest.
"A boy," she whispers as the Doctor ties off the cord between them and quickly snips it, doing his best to clean her as she continues to stare, in awe, at their son.
A son, he considers as he blinks away another set of tears. A tiny half-human child who holds his hearts as easily as the woman cradling him and pressing a loving kiss to his wrinkled little forehead. The Doctor moved to her side and he stares down at the boy now quiet in her arms, his bottom lip still shaking as Clara whispers apologies and introductions.
The Tardis gives a shrill bong of a bell and the Doctor laughs, knowing they can travel now. He can take them somewhere safe to examine and rest before they begin their next adventure. Their first as a proper family.
Leaning into Clara, he reaches to press his knuckles to the boy's strong heartbeats as he kisses the top of Clara's head. He watches those long thin fingers – his fingers – fall against and then wrap around either side of his hand as the newborn blinks up at them warily, one brow rising slightly as he pouts.
Clara sighs, "Takes after you."
Feeling those hearts, and knowing the love and the bravery that rests within them, he shakes his head and responds silently, "Nah, he's just like you."