The following was written for the Doctor Who Fest over on tumblr (where it has been posted to my writing sideblog and under the tag "ficandsouffles"). It's also my first decidedly Whouffle/Whouffaldi story I've been willing to put out there. It's not very long, but it's effective.

I don't own Doctor Who, blah, blah.

The Doctor laid at her feet, crumpled lifelessly. Clara felt her chest constrict as all around her lasers fired and people screamed.

He was dead.

"No…" she whispered, kneeling down next to him. It was the same face, yet it had been hundreds of years for him. His face was now lined with wrinkles and his hair a wispy white. He had walked with a hunch and a lean and possessed a memory that was scattershot. Gallifrey did not listen—no, the Time Lords did not listen. They didn't help her save him. The girl who was born to save the Doctor had failed, and the Doctor was now dead.

Gingerly, Clara lifted the Doctor's head and placed it in her lap. She bit her bottom lip to keep herself from crying, though tears began to stream down her face and drip on the corpse's face. A sniffle was drowned out by an explosion from behind—it did not matter. Let the Daleks come, the Judoon, the Cybermen, Sontaran, Angels… damn them all. Just let it be over with.

"Clara!" gasped one of the Christmas citizens. She didn't turn around to look at him, but instead burst into a sob.

"Go away," she cried. "Just leave me."

"Clara, wake up!"

She turned around and looked at the man addressing her. Yes, it was a native of Christmas, but he spoke in a way that was so familiar. Another explosion shook the building, jarring the young woman.

"Wake up Clara!"

With a gasp, Clara did indeed wake up. She bolted upright and tried to catch her breath, chest heaving violently. A set of gentle hands held her shoulder and hand.

"Are you alright, my dear?" the Doctor asked. Clara looked at him and tried to swallow despite her dry mouth. He was there, alive and well, and saved. He looked different than in her dream, now with fluffy hair and blue eyes and actual eyebrows this time Christ Almighty… but it was still him kneeling next to her bed. He must have heard her from the sitting room, which was where he had taken to reading during the nighttime hours when normal people slept.

"No…" she squeaked out, her voice cracking. "I… you… couldn't save… you were…"

"Shhh, there now…" the Doctor said. He sat down on the edge of the bed and let Clara bury her flushed face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her protectively, creating a warm cocoon of limbs.

It felt childish, it really did. She was a grown woman and grown women, ones with jobs and flats and motorbikes and bills to pay, did not wake up sobbing in the middle of the night and they certainly did not need to be comforted by alien gentlemen that smelled of cinnamon bread and cloves and coffee. Clara sat there, embarrassed, as the Doctor stroked her hair and rested his chin on her head. She cautiously wrapped her arms around his midsection, clinging to the soft cardigan fabric.

It felt childish but it also felt right.

"Stay, please."

"As you wish, love."

Carefully, the Doctor slid underneath Clara's duvet and laid himself down. The woman pressed herself into him, utilizing his grasp as an invitation to nestle her head on his shoulder. He tilted his head and let his face lean against the top of her head—citrus shampoo and sweat from her dream.

Clara smiled as she breathed deeply and brought her heart rate back towards its normal pace. She could feel the Doctor's hands twitch around her waist; waiting had never been one of his strong suits and neither was sitting still. He would though, for her, that much she knew, and smiled at the ceiling. Before long, her eyelids began to droop and sleep attempted to claim her once more. She slid herself up and gently kissed the Doctor on the lips.

"Thanks," she whispered before nuzzling into his neck. A careful hand stroked her back as twin hearts beat in rhythm below.

"You're welcome."