A/N: Thanks soniczephyr for letting me throw words at you until they became this
"Clara!"
The Doctor jerked upright. His hearts pounded inside his chest and ears.
Clara.
Stretching over the side of her bed, he scooped up her wrist, and felt for the spot where her pulse would beat the strongest against his fingertips. He counted, fought back panic with evidence. With proof of life.
Not dead. Not this time.
How much longer, though? How much longer until he let go of her hand at the wrong time, or stepped out onto the wrong planet, and he lost her forever. When would he be forced to stand by and watch the last of her days burn up all at once, or watch her fade and blow away from him, pulling his hearts along in her wake?
How long until he did something, or missed something that couldn't be repaired by a few extra meals and a long rest?
The knot inside his chest twisted a little tighter.
He could save her.
He should have done it already.
He should have brought her home the first time, or the thousandth time he told himself to do it. He should have listened to himself when he vowed to stop reaching for their little hands - to stop showing humans a universe that would dazzle and destroy them in turn.
If he really wanted to protect them, her, then he'd stay far away.
He threw a look over his shoulder at the TARDIS in the corner of her too small bedroom.
The temptation to run - to do exactly what she expected of him from the start - crashed over him again. He lost his breath.
He could (should) leave now, never look back. She could fill in the gaps with work, with routines and bedtimes. And breakfast.
Clara liked breakfast.
And any Clara-shaped holes he might find inside himself could be stuffed full of stars and planets and danger. It would never compare, would always leak light, but it could be enough.
To save her, could he lose himself?
The rest of her life under the same sun. Clara actually surviving him should be worth any personal cost.
The Doctor swallowed, scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked Clara over once more.
He didn't stand a chance.
He was far too tired, too selfish to give her up now. Not like this.
As long as Clara wanted him, he was hers.
Letting out a ragged breath, he shifted in his seat. If he couldn't run, he'd have to do staying properly.
He'd just have to do it differently. He'd never been any good at sitting still, had too much regret and too many mistakes in his rear-view to be the sort of man who enjoyed reflection.
It would only lead to brooding, and when Clara woke, she wouldn't be pleased to find him doing it at her bedside.
So he climbed to his feet, wiped his palms against his shirt, and headed for the TARDIS.
He could, at least, make lunch.
Pushing the TARDIS door open, he ran his fingers over the console as he walked by, and headed for the kitchen. Finding it where he left it came as a pleasant surprise, and he patted the door and murmured a 'thanks' as he entered.
The top shelf had the cook books. Clara had put them there, maybe in the hopes that the food they'd bought might turn into an actual meal someday.
It hadn't.
He yanked them down one by one, flipping through and looking at pictures.
There. Soup.
Even if he had lost all his culinary skills, he thought he could manage soup.
Gathering up all the ingredients, he tossed them and the book onto a tray and headed back through the TARDIS. He'd use her kitchen. She probably wouldn't mind if he cleaned up after himself.
He'd just have to remember to do that part.
Shutting the TARDIS door with his foot, he glanced at Clara once more, and slipped out of her room.
Dropping the tray onto her counter, he opened and closed nearly every cabinet and drawer until he found what he needed.
Funny little organization system here, Clara...
He flipped the heat on beneath the pot, dropped the lid over it, and returned to her room to wait.
He just hoped she'd be pleased to see him, that he'd done the right thing by staying.
He smelled the soup, his stomach responding at once. He could admit, for the little it did to ease his guilt, he didn't just forget Clara had needs. He'd become quite adept at forgetting his own as well.
Her bed squeaked.
The Doctor pulled his eyes open, sat upright, fingers gripping into the arm of the chair. Another shift. Clara let out a long breath. She pulled her eyes open, blinked up at the ceiling. He sat silent, words tumbling over each other too fast to settle on the right ones.
In the last body, he would have said them all.
Now he said none.
She sat up slowly, sniffed the air, and turned to see him. She froze, fingers digging into the blanket that had bunched up over her lap.
Reaching up, she rubbed at her head and tucked the hair he'd been dying to touch back behind her ear.
"What happened?"
"You collapsed."
She blinked at him, and it took a him a beat too long to realize she expected more information.
"I put you in bed."
Good job, Doctor. Very helpful
Clara groaned, flopped back against her bed and closed her eyes.
"Are you sleeping more?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. "There's soup."
"You made soup?" Clara asked, cracking open an eye and looking at him.
"I made soup,' he agreed, standing up. "It's probably edible, too."
She let out a breath. It sounded like a laugh, closer than he'd heard in far too long. He fought back a smile, and headed for the door.
"Doctor?"
He glanced back over his shoulder.
"Why didn't you leave?" she asked, eyes moving to the TARDIS.
He sighed and turned back around. He'd been hoping to put off this conversation until sometime in the next century - didn't want her to see how close he'd been to doing just that.
He didn't think 'I'm trying to save you ' would go over well as an excuse. Not for her.
"I didn't bring you here to leave you, Clara," he said, shaking his head. "I just wanted- I want you safe."
He swallowed the rest of his words and drew in a breath. Clara's fingers tightened into the blanket again and her eyes did that thing. The sad thing. The scared thing.
The knot tightened a little more.
"I'll get the soup," he said, spinning around and heading back out of the room.
DW
Clara pushed the covers off her slowly. Her stomach growled, and she ran her hand over her shirt. The same one as the previous day. She didn't imagine the Doctor would ever be brave enough to undress her - even if only to put her to bed.
Leaning forward, she ran her fingers over the arm of the chair he'd left behind. Safe. He only wanted her safe. She could accept the idea of Earth being safer than the rest of the universe, though she knew that anything could happen anywhere.
She could accept he hadn't just brought her here to dump her, no matter what she had first thought when they'd arrived at her flat.
He'd stayed though. When he could have run, even if only to fill the hours she slept. He could have left, with every intention of returning before she opened her eyes - and likely getting it hopelessly wrong.
But he hadn't. He'd pulled a chair to her bedside. He'd made soup.
He didn't cook for her. He hadn't since...
They ate on the run, or slumped against the TARDIS counter, eating ingredients that would never quite make it to a meal. Who had the time? She'd never really minded it, though. She'd accepted it as a new fact of their existence, a shift in their way of life. A small one, really, considering.
She'd moved on, no looking back, no expecting what she couldn't have.
Now. Now her eyes stung, and she wiped her cheeks free of the moisture at once. He didn't know what to do with tears, and she didn't have the first clue about how to explain their cause.
She felt better after washing her face. The darkness under her eyes had eased, and she found herself smiling at the faint sounds of the Doctor in the kitchen. He muttered, a cabinet shut loudly, and then she heard his feet as they moved by the bathroom.
Clara looked herself over again, as if it would matter if she pulled the brush through her hair.
She did it anyway.
She took in a deep breath, and headed back to her room. She found him inside, balancing a tray on the bed. Steam curled up out of a bowl of soup - which smelled far better than she wanted to admit aloud - and a glass of juice sat next to a spoon.
She took another step and he spun around to face her.
"Clara," he said. "Come sit."
"In bed?"
"Of course in bed," he said, waving his hand at the tray. "Before it gets cold. It won't taste good cold."
Brushing by him, she climbed back up on her bed, and scooted until he could settle the tray over her lap.
She nearly asked what he'd done with the Doctor she knew and loved, but thought better of it.
"Thanks," she said, instead.
He nodded, slid the bowl and glass closer. She took a drink obediently, watched as he retrieved a second bowl and settled back into the chair.
"Eat, Clara. Please."
She grabbed the spoon, lifted it to her mouth and blew. Clara tipped it into her mouth. Warm, salty. Not unbearably so. Good, actually. She heard him exhale, then the sound of a spoon, scraping against the bottom of his own bowl.
He stared down into his soup, remained silent, so she followed his lead.
Her eyes still felt heavy, doubly so after she'd finished her food. Clara shifted the tray to the side, scooted her way to the edge of the bed.
The Doctor's hand fell over hers, his fingers tightening until she stilled.
She looked down.
He still touched her, of course, in passing. A rare hug, a brush against her when in danger. This one surprised her anyway.
"Rest, Clara."
"I'm fine, Doctor. I just-"
"Clara," he said, and she met his eyes - both hard and soft at the same time.
She nodded, sighed. Gave in. Hopefully he wouldn't get used to it.
"Fine," she said. "But not in bed. On the couch."
He squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking over the skin and then he pulled it away. She swallowed, the feeling lingering even as he climbed to his feet.
"I'll clean up," he said. "Find a movie or something. Whatever you humans like to do. I forget."
He gathered up the tray, threw her a look over his shoulder and left her sitting on the bed to try to sort through her feelings alone.