"There is a perfectly good explanation, Clara, but it's very hard to think of it with you glaring at me like that."
She gave the Doctor one final challenging look then left him leaning against the doorframe. She stepped carefully around the room with a sense of unreality, fingers trailing along the fringed lamp on the dressing table, hands picking up and discarding the teal pillow from the floral-backed rocking chair.
"It's identical," she said, picking up a decorative box from the top of the dresser and brandishing it. "Right down to the very last detail. Why?"
He stood uncertainly, half in and half out the doorway, hands twitching at his sides. Clara couldn't tell if he were gathering his strength to enter the room or run away; he wouldn't make it far, regardless. Fatigue pulled at his body, dragging his features down, shoulders drooping. He gave a tired shrug, opened his mouth to reply and then shook his head.
"Okay," she said, suddenly relenting. "Never mind. Interrogation later. You're barely staying on your feet."
She replaced the box on the dresser, started to pull out a drawer and then stopped as a thought struck her.
"I'm looking for pyjamas," she said. "Your pyjamas, just so you know. If I find any of my things in here, we're going to have a very serious conversation about the nature of our relationship."
"Don't be ridiculous." He strode into the room, indignation giving him a sudden burst of energy. He reached past her and wrenched open the drawer, nearly tipping it out onto the floor.
"Empty," Clara said with a sigh of relief.
"I don't know what you were expecting," he grumbled, moving toward the middle of the room. "Frilly nightgowns perhaps?" He grabbed a pillow from the pile near the headboard and brushed off a spot in the middle of the bed. "And I don't need pyjamas."
"Oh, yes you do," she said, catching him by the arm before he could sit down. "I know this isn't my bed, not really, but you're going to change before you lie down."
"I don't need to change, Clara," he said shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing."
She scoffed. "Nothing wrong? Everything is damp from the rain and you've been wiping your nose and bleeding on that jacket all day." She pressed an emphatic finger into his chest. "You're changing."
"And I thought the medical equipment was bossy," he said under his breath, moving back to the dresser.
"I heard that."
He yanked open another drawer without looking at it, attention focused on Clara. "This is going to be empty too," he said. "They're probably all empty. I don't sleep that often and when I do, I don't require a change of clothes-"
His voice trailed off and she came to stand next to him, rifling a brightly colored stack of clothing. She unfolded a long-sleeved t-shirt in purple, draping it across her hand and running her fingers over it. "You look good in this color," she said, nodding her approval. "You should wear it more often. The hipster goth style is okay but-"
He snatched the shirt from her and opened the next drawer, pulling out the first pair of pyjama bottoms his hands landed on, in a garish red plaid pattern.
"Red and purple," she said. "Nice combo. And make sure you keep the stripey socks on, love those."
He muttered something she couldn't hear as he unzipped his jacket and shrugged out of it.
Clara bunched the material of her black skirt in both hands, studying it with a critical eye. "I should probably clean up, too," she said. "Jacket's not the only thing you've been bleeding on."
She smoothed one hand down her jumper, considering. She could always leave, walk back home and let the Doctor fend for himself, but in the time it took to grab a shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms for herself, she'd decided to stay.
"Be right back," she said over her shoulder, moving into the tiny en suite.
Clara stripped down to her underthings, kicking her skirt and twinset into a corner. She'd worry about washing everything later. Maybe the TARDIS had a laundrette somewhere. She stepped into the fleecy PJ bottoms next, securing the waistband with a knot and bending to roll the cuffs to a respectable length. She finally pulled the t-shirt over her head, sighing with pleasure as the supple cotton glided smoothly over her skin. She was practically swimming in it, the neckline hanging off her shoulder, but she didn't care. She'd never felt so comfortable.
"Why didn't you tell me you had these shirts?" she called through the door, knowing he was listening. "I would have borrowed one ages ago."
"That's why I never told you," he called back. "I knew if you got your hands on them I'd never see them again."
"Probably a wise decision."
Clara eyed the wall cabinet, curiosity warring with polite reserve. It wasn't a personality trait she was necessarily proud of, but she could never stop herself from snooping through other people's things. Curiosity won out and she eased the door open, trying to be quiet and discreet.
"I can hear you going through the cabinets, you know."
"Yeah," she said. "Not being nosy."
"Yes, you are."
"Yes, I am," she agreed. She pushed aside a stack of towels and peered into the back of the cabinet. Nothing but bars of wrapped soap and a bottle of her favorite brand of shampoo. "It's all boring stuff, though," she said. "I was expecting industrial-grade eyebrow tweezers or a shelf full of hair care products."
"Sorry to disappoint," he said, the sound of his voice growing fainter as he moved away from the door. She snicked the cabinet door closed and grabbed a hair elastic from the ceramic dish on the sink. She paused as she tied her hair back, realizing she'd reached automatically, expecting it to be there.
When she returned to the bedroom, the Doctor was sitting against the headboard, knees drawn up, a handful of tissues pressed to his nose, sonic screwdriver in his lap.
"Hiya," she said, bouncing slightly as she joined him on the bed. "Sniffles getting worse?"
Yes, the sniffles are getting worse," he said, very much upon his dignity. "Or I have a cerebrospinal fluid leak from the fall. One of those."
"Oh, dear," she said, affecting a mock tone of concern. "Spinal fluid leak, that sounds serious."
"It is serious, Clara," he said. "You could sound a bit more worried."
She nabbed the sonic from him, twirling it slightly in her fingers. "So we need to find out if you cracked your skull when you fell. How do you do the scan thingy for broken bones?"
"Careful," he said, voice muffled. "That's a delicate instrument."
She scoffed. "Seriously? It has two buttons, buzzes and lights up like a child's toy and you toss it around constantly. It's hardly delicate."
He reached out for the sonic screwdriver, one eyebrow raised. Clara sighed and placed it carefully into his waiting hand. He buffed it slightly on his shirt before holding it close to his face, squinting at the controls. His fingers fiddled with the raised concentric rings until the green light flashed twice and the prongs sprang open. He held the screwdriver at an angle near the site of the injury, adjusting his grip and frowning as his hand wobbled and it dropped from his fingers to the surface of the bed.
"This is so awkward," he said, retrieving the screwdriver and re-adjusting the setting. "Maybe I should use a mirror."
"Or you could let me run the scan," Clara said. She'd been waiting as patiently as she could, eager to take control of the situation. "Just tell me what to do."
He glanced over at her, passing the sonic from hand to hand. She gave him a playful nudge.
"Don't give me that doubtful look, like I'm going to scramble your marvelous brain. How hard can it be?"
She vaulted over the top of him to reach his other side, giggling when he flinched and curled into himself. "I'm not going to jump on you," she said. "Not yet, at least. Not until I know you're okay."
He sighed as he handed the sonic screwdriver to her.
"Keep it at a consistent distance from the skin, approximately five centimeters," he said, a worried note creeping into his voice. "And don't jostle it while you're scanning. Can you manage that?"
"Can I manage that?" She pushed her sleeves up her arms and held her hand flat, palm down, for his inspection. "See? Steady as the proverbial rock. I'm a school teacher. You show any signs of nervousness in front of the Coal Hill kids, you are dead meat." She pulled her sleeves back down. "I can manage it."
He nodded. "Scan the area from here," he said, pointing to the top of his head, "to here," indicating a spot along his jawline.
"Got it," she said. "Turn your head a little." He looked to the side, closing his eyes and tilting his chin up slightly.
Clara's thoughts shifted from her task to the Doctor himself. She'd caught traces of his unique scent before, sometimes in discarded clothing, sometimes when he leaned close to her while explaining an esoteric finding or theory. She knew if she buried her nose in the delicate patch of skin just behind his earlobe, now visible and directly in front of her, she could breathe in his scent fully. She was seized with a sudden need to do so and lowered her head toward his. The Doctor's irritated voice brought her out of her reverie.
"What are you waiting for?"
"Sorry," she said, jumping backward slightly and shaking her head, trying to bring herself back to her task. Best to put those thoughts back where they came from, wherever that happened to be.
One corner of her lip caught between her teeth as she activated the sonic, keeping an even pressure on the controls while she moved it slowly from point to point, hand never wavering. As it moved past the ending point, Clara gently released the button and blew out the breath she'd been holding.
"Turn off that lamp,will you?" the Doctor said, motioning to the bedside table as he took the sonic screwdriver from her. He aimed it at the ceiling, projecting an image of incomprehensible words and associated numbers. Clara tried to follow the rapidly scrolling information, but found she couldn't keep up, settling instead for watching his face. His lips were pursed, expression impassive, eyes darting back and forth as he read.
"Contusion," he muttered. "Minor laceration...elevated core temperature. We knew all of that already." He thumbed a button, the information disappearing in a wink. "No fracture," he said, twirling the sonic in his hands. "And no evidence of intracranial injury."
She mouthed the last words to herself, trying to puzzle it out.
"No concussion," he explained.
"Guess that means your hard head protected you."
"I suppose so," he said with a distracted frown. She touched his arm lightly and he startled, turning wide eyes on her.
"Why do you still look worried?"
"Chest hurts a bit," he said in such a soft, small voice, Clara was once again reminded of a five year old. She had to turn very brisk in her manner to keep herself from leaning over for a good cuddle.
"You mean it hurts to breathe, or-?"
"No." He made a vague gesture along his right flank. "It just feels sore and achy."
"You landed on that side when you fell down the stairs," she said. "Maybe you cracked a rib."
He nodded, adjusting the screwdriver settings with his thumb. "Hands still feel steady?"
"Will the, uhm, scan work through clothing?" she asked.
"It will, but it's not as accurate." The Doctor sat forward, gathering his shirt in both hands, lifting it up around his chest and wincing in discomfort. She touched a reddened area over his ribs and he gave a quick shudder, gooseflesh rising on his skin.
"I'll be quick," she said.
He remained motionless, not even breathing until the scan was complete, then flopped back, limp and worn out, teeth chattering as he gave himself over to a fit of shivering.
Clara copied his earlier movements, pressing the bottom button and aiming the sonic toward the ceiling. His eyes followed the information.
"Contusion," he said through clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice steady. "No fracture. Upper respiratory infection and...well, that's unfortunate." He wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his chin into his chest.
"What is?" she said, her attention snapping back to the display above them. "What's unfortunate? I don't understand."
"Early stages of a secondary infection," he said.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm going to be parked in this alley for a bit longer than I originally planned."
"But you're going to be okay?"
"I would think so," he said. "Superior physiology and all."
Clara rolled her eyes and scooted to the end of the bed, unfolding a heavy quilt and pulling it up to cover him. He tucked his hands into the edge of the blanket, pulling it over his shoulder as he rolled over toward her.
"Comfy?" she asked.
He made a noncommittal noise and yawned, burrowing his head into the pile of pillows.
"Before you fall asleep," she said, "Maybe you can explain what happened earlier."
One eye opened momentarily. "Earlier?" he asked, voice blurry with fatigue. "I don't understand."
"Then I'll refresh your memory," Clara said, spreading her hand and ticking off each point on a finger as she spoke. "You're ill, have been for a few days now from the sound of it." One finger went down and the Doctor flinched slightly.
"You're running a fever and not that steady on your feet." Tick. Another finger.
"Then you wake up from a sound sleep, babbling about something important you're forgetting, and when you try to make it down the stairs, you fall and nearly kill yourself."
He looked so chastened then, eyes wide open and expression puzzled, she felt a quick pang of guilt and deliberately softened her tone before speaking again.
"What were you thinking?"
The Doctor shifted uneasily. "I was going to take you home," he said.
That was the important thing you forgot," she said, voice flat with disbelief. "Taking me home."
She folded her arms, leaning back against the headboard. She didn't want to look at him right now. She didn't want to remember how frightened and helpless she'd felt while he lay unresponsive in her lap. She didn't want to think about how worried she felt right this moment, wondering what secondary infection had taken hold of him and how he would respond. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Doctor propping himself up on one elbow and felt a gentle touch on her arm.
"I wanted to take you home because I can't travel right now," he said, his tone begging her to understand. "I can't go anywhere until I've recovered and I know how bored you'd be, just hanging around-"
Clara twitched away from him. "Stop right there," she said. "Putting aside the fact that you couldn't operate a dodgem in your current condition, let alone a highly-complex transdimensional time machine, did I even ask you to take me home?:
"No, but-"
"No," she said. "You just assumed that's what I wanted and then nearly killed yourself trying to do something for me that I didn't even want done."
She jumped from the bed, feeling a sudden need to walk off her nervous irritation. He sat up, making a move as if he intended to follow, but then sat quietly, watching her instead. She circled the room once, giving the very familiar rocking chair a kick as she passed, stopping to watch it sway back and forth.
"Doctor," she said after a moment, her words cutting through the weighty silence. "In your opinion, would you say I'm intelligent?"
"For a resident of Earth, yes," he said.
"And I'm resourceful?" she said, not looking at him. "Decisive? Good under pressure?"
"All of those, Clara, but why-?"
"Then I can make up my own mind." she said. "And you're not to decide things on my behalf ever again, are we clear?"
"Of course."
She sighed, feeling all her anger and indignation leaving her in a rush.
"It's been a very long day," she said. "I need a cup of tea and an enormous plate of biscuits and maybe a pizza if I can sweet talk Franco's into delivering to a police box in a deserted alley."
"You're leaving?" he asked and then added quickly. "Not that I blame you."
Clara turned just in time to catch his fleeting look of disappointment and smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.
"I'm coming back. Won't get very far dressed like this," she said, motioning to her oversized black t-shirt and navy pyjama bottoms spangled with tiny yellow galaxies. "I'll even let you have some pizza if you ask nicely."
"No pineapple this time."
"Don't press your luck." She tapped the wall on her way out the door and glanced over her shoulder at him, eyebrows raised. "And you still have some explaining to do."