A/N: Gah. I love the Doctor and Clara almost as much as I loved the Doctor and River and the Doctor and Rose. I can't make up my mind. XD So here, have some angst.
Bloody Americans
She recoils from the force of a bullet, and his scream is lost over the sound of the battlefield. Cannons boom and muskets pop and people cry, and the Doctor watches as Clara Oswald falls. Agony wrenches the word from his lips again. "No!"
She's gasping for breath, staring faintly out the TARDIS's door. The Doctor hauls her inside, slams the door shut, drops beside her. Her eyes flicker upward, unfocused, her words barely whispered. "I don't know if—if I like America."
He wants to joke a reply. He wants to make a comment like, "No, I imagine not," say something casual and wry, something that would bring a smile to her lips and laughter to the air.
Instead he chokes on his words, grips her hand, and stares at the blood bubbling from her stomach. She'll be lucky to have another five minutes here. Her eyelids are already fluttering.
No. He can't watch her die again.
Ignoring the wound, he shoves his arms under her back and knees and stands abruptly. It's enough to jostle her awake and she gasps in pain, bites back a scream. He runs.
Four minutes.
The TARDIS doesn't like Clara. He halfway expects the old girl to hide the medical center, to keep him from trying everything to save her. But he finds the room around the first corner, primed and waiting. He whispers a thank-you and eases Clara onto the table, determined not to hear her scream again.
"Bullet… bullet…" he says, eyes darting over the supplies. There's a whole wall of medical doo-dads, bits and pieces from every planet with any kind of medical advance. Humanity once figured out how to stop a bullet. They had a machine designed to retrieve the metal and repair the flesh, leave everything good as new.
They switched to laser weapons almost immediately afterwards.
But it'd do the trick. He dove into the drawers, tore open the cabinets, scouring for that magical machine.
Three minutes.
It's not around. He remembers grabbing one, picking it up at an antique shop a hundred years after the Laser War. He remembers tinkering with it until it functioned perfectly. He remembers using it on Rose once.
Then the TARDIS rebuilt itself, and he has no idea what the old girl did with it.
"Blast it all," he shouts. Clara moans. She's probably already unconscious, but he can't waste precious time checking.
Two minutes.
Think. Think.
The Pulitrons created an elixir that caused the body to reject foreign substances. It expels the object (usually poison—the Pulitrons loved murder almost as much as dinner parties), but doesn't fix the damage.
Clara can't live without a perfect, functioning stomach. A stomach that hasn't been ripped apart by a ball of lead.
He needs something other than the elixir.
"Oh, the Refleshizer," he says, clapping his hands. The ability to rebuild her wounded body was just a tissue sample away. "Of course!"
He grabs the Refleshizer and wastes precious seconds scouring his potions cabinet for the Pulitron elixir. Clara is still, barely breathing. Blood stains her dress, an ugly red splotch in the middle of classic pilgrim attire.
He shudders and forces himself to focus.
One minute.
The Doctor opens her mouth and pours the elixir. She coughs on reflex, but he massages her throat to make her swallow most of it. She groans and falls silent. A second later, the bullet emerges from the wound like a bubble rising to the surface of a glass of water. It's covered in blood and grime and it clanks to the table.
He rips the safety cover off the Refleshizer and powers it on with the flick of a switch. It hums. He uses the knife at one end to gently scrape a sample of her skin into the machine. When the light glows green, he aims the needle and stabs it into the center of the wound.
Time.
The flesh knits itself back together. Blood dries. A scar forms and vanishes just as quickly. The Refleshizer glows orange, and the Doctor gently extracts it.
That worked. He almost laughs in relief.
Until he realizes that she's not breathing.
"No. Clara, no," he says, bending closer to her mouth. Nothing. No puff of breath, no amused chuckle. No sound.
Clara is dead.
Again.
"No!" he says, panic making him fierce. "You do not get to leave me. I decide when that happens, and it's absolutely not in 18th century America." He forms a fist, pumps her chest. One and two and three and four and five and six and—
He counts to thirty. He breathes into her mouth, watches her chest rise, starts the cycle again.
One and two and three and four and five—
He's already lost her twice, and maybe there are a hundred more of her. Maybe.
Or maybe there's just the three, and this was his last chance to keep a hold on the best thing since a girl serving him fish fingers and custard.
"Please," he says during the compressions. He stares at her face, her little button nose, her proud cheekbones, her flawless skin. He already misses her eyes, full of intelligence and wit and sass. Logical eyes. Deductive.
"P-please," he says again.
Then.
Then she coughs.
She coughs, and he pulls back to let her cough, turning her carefully onto her side. He laughs and laughs as she chokes, gasps in air, reorients herself. She drops back onto the table. Her leg brushes against the bullet.
"Well," she says. Her voice is a bare wheeze, and she looks exhausted. Her dress is still stained. He sweeps her into a hug anyway, and it's a long time before he remembers to let go. He draws a deep breath, smelling her hair, and reluctantly pulls away.
"Clara," he says, taking her hand. He's damn near euphoric that she's alive. She's alive and okay and he didn't have to lose her again. His eyes narrow. "You're ridiculous. And next time, you're not picking the place."
"Your box got it wrong," she replies, closing her eyes.
The Doctor remembers how quickly he found the medical room. He reels backwards, strokes the wall, whispers an apology, a condolence. Once again, he owes his "box" everything, because once again everything is sitting on his operating table. Breathing.
"The TARDIS never makes a mistake."
"Right then. Must just be the pilot," she says. A tired smirk tugs her lips. He moves back into view, scoops her off the table. She doesn't scream this time. She just leans against his chest and closes her eyes.
"Pilot, indeed," he replies, somewhat fondly. "Without me, you'd be nowhere, Clara."
"Without you, I'd be home, Doctor."
She's right, but he doesn't admit it. He has to believe that without his presence, she'd have died a hundred times over. Otherwise he can't stand himself, can't stand the fact that he's put her in harm's way as many times.
But he's selfish, and he won't give her up without a fight. She doesn't realize how close she is to being a full-on prisoner, locked up here in his TARDIS until he decides to let her go. He hopes she never realizes, because she'll be waiting a while.
He takes her to her bedroom, a few hallways over this time. It's a quiet place, modest except for a massive bookshelf covering the far wall. He lays her on her bed. She wordlessly lifts her arms, and he pulls the bloodied dress off her, doing his best to avoid looking. It's hard, especially when he wants to see her stomach, make sure she's really okay.
She waits until the dress is completely off and she's sitting on the bed barely clad. Then she remarks, "Doctor, getting me out of my clothes already? My, my."
His ears burn, but he manages to roll his eyes. There's a nightgown draped over her reading chair, and he looks pointedly at the bookshelf, holding it out with a hand. She bites back a yawn and takes the gown. He hears rustling fabric and the squeak of the box spring, and when he peeks over his shoulder she's dressed—no blood—and her eyes are closed.
Asleep.
He presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls the covers over her and says, "You are home, Clara. Don't ever forget it."
Then he settles into the reading chair.
A/N: Sorry about the horrible name "Refleshizer," but my muse disappeared when it hit midnight. XD And OMG CAN'T WAIT FOR NOVEMBER 23rd!
Anyway. Thanks for reading. :P