"It's alright, Clara. The effects will reverse themselves within a day or two."
It was only after those words that she began to laugh. Only after she was certain they'd accomplished what they'd come to do and were safe and ready to depart, in spite of the small hiccup in their plans. Small, he huffed, watching her wipe tears from her eyes, only to glance back at him and begin her laughter anew. He scoffed, waving an arm in her direction in frustration before dusting himself off and waiting, because eventually her laughter had to die down and eventually she had to help him.
"So," she coughed, smile still working her lips, "A day or two, you're stuck like this."
The Doctor took a long breath.
Stuck like this.
Three inches tall.
"Just a bit shorter, you seem to have done well with it your entire life – what's a day or two?" He'd intended for the words to bite. To wipe the amusement out of her eyes. Instead she merely shook her head as she bent and held out her palm, nodding when he looked between her face and her fingertips.
He hesitantly stepped onto her, feet padding softly over her flesh to stand at a cross in her skin.
"Might want to sit," she warned.
Dropping with a grunt, the Doctor began to utter his annoyance when she stood and he reached out to hold her thumb tightly, quiet as they made their way towards the Tardis. He felt foolish, cheeks burning every time a chuckle escaped her lips just after she'd checked on him, sprawled across her hand. She sighed then, reaching to deposit him in her left breast pocket. He sat inside and frowned. Pouted, she might say, like an angry student given detention.
"Don't worry, Doctor," she sighed, "I'll make sure you're alright."
"I'm small, Clara," he shouted, "Not a child."
"Don't yell," she countered, "I can hear you just fine."
She giggled, he knew, because he'd sounded exactly like a child.
He could hear the Tardis door creek open and then shut and she moved to press at buttons and swing her levers, taking them into the Vortex where they could spend their time waiting for him to return to his usual size. The Doctor waited as she walked, counting her steps and listening to the faint thud of her heartbeat, tapping at her with his Sonic. This, he imagined, was the life of a child: carried around by a mother, sequestered to her in some fashion.
Reliant, he knew, on her care.
"Doctor," she called before reaching in for him, waiting for him to get a grip before moving him out of her pocket and settling him on her bed. "I could bring you food, something to drink?"
"A change of clothes would be nice," he quipped.
She kicked off her shoes and pointed, "Enough with the tone."
Clara walked away and the Doctor looked around, bouncing slightly on the bed before he stopped and rubbed at his temples. A day or two was boring enough in his own skin at his own size, but shrunk down. He flopped back and stared at the ceiling. He could explore the Tardis! The notion brightened his demeanor until he realized he had no clue how he'd return to normal size. The Doctor didn't know if it would be gradual, or happen in a painful snap. He felt his hearts drumming.
"Not lasagna," he breathed. "CLARA," he shouted again and again and again.
She rushed in, plate in hand, and nearly fell at the foot of the bed, asking quickly, "What is it? Are you alright?" Her concern palpable enough to stop his thoughts a moment to consider her before shaking his head.
He scanned himself with his Sonic and breathed a sigh of relief before explaining, "Momentary lapse in self-control, sorry to have worried you."
She groaned and stood, setting the plate down so he could see the assortment of bread, cheese and a slice of ham beside a small saucer of water before she waved a hand, "I can't make you a sandwich your size; help yourself, I need a shower."
Setting himself to the task of tearing and pulling and stumbling, he ended up in his t-shirt, pants and socks – the rest soiled in the process – nibbling on bits that had fallen as he'd tried, sighing when Clara re-entered the room in her nightie, laughter easily spilling from her lips. Of course he knew he looked ridiculous and he turned away as she tidied up, crawling to a stand and moping as he made his way towards the pillows to climb up. He could feel her sit and he watched her lay carefully, propping her head up on her palm to stare into him.
"You alright?" She questioned softly.
"No," he stated. The Doctor knew Clara understood all too well he felt restrained, incapable of controlling his situation any more than she could. He knew she sympathized, wishing she could make it better; knowing she could only stand by and care for his needs.
"Is there anything I can do?" Clara asked, the genuine concern in her voice, and the empathetic sadness in her eyes helping to soften his mood.
"No," he repeated, this time softer, almost apologetic.
"I need to sleep," she reminded, "But I know you don't. It might not be safe to wander though." Clara was silent a moment before asking, "Does the Tardis have space rats?"
He turned to look at her in disgust before realizing he had no clue – did the Tardis have some sort of space rodent that could eat him as he slept? For he was utterly exhausted by the transformation and, he imagined, the impending transformation back. But was there something small enough that might have no interest in a grown person, but would climb right up and snatch him for dinner as he and Clara snored away the night. He swallowed roughly and stood, sliding down from his pillow to walk closer to the woman staring down at him. He glared up at her, unsure of what to say.
Under any other circumstances, he might have laughed: her in her nightie; him in his pants.
He sighed and uttered simply, "It's possible."
Smiling gently, she nodded and slipped down before chuckling, "You're a lot cuter at this size."
Growling, he turned away and crossed his arms just before the warmth of a kiss that enveloped nearly half of him sent a jolt of embarrassment through his body as he pushed at her chin lightly, listening to her laugh. He furrowed his brow at her as she laid her head down and sighed at him. Thinking of him as cute, he grumbled, just wait until he returned to full size. He'd show her. He looked away from the adoring eyes and began pulling himself up her pillow to push about her hair, tucking himself in at her forehead.
"Comfortable?" She asked.
"Try not to move, your head is enormous at normal size, but right now, it'd be like being steamrolled by a fleshy boulder – a death I'd rather not lose a regeneration to," he teased, suddenly grateful for her company.
Oddly wishing she were the same size.
Clara merely laughed, snapping to turn out the light at their bedside. Shifting the covers up to her shoulder, she took one long last breath before relaxing for the night. The Doctor touched his head to hers and he closed his eyes, sighing at the feel of her hair softly enveloping him entirely as though unconsciously protecting him. He looked down one last time at the slope of her nose and the length of her lashes and he smiled, daring to peck a set of tiny kisses to her forehead she would one day retell felt like welcome raindrops on parched skin.
He chuckled to himself, a day or two might not be so bad.