The Doctor bowed his head, tears dripping down his nose and onto the blanket spread across the bed. Clara reached over to brush them away, only half understanding what was going on. She understood, what, just not how, but as she cupped his face in her hands the tears rolling over her knuckles with no signs of stopping she found that she didn't need to know the specifics. Her Doctor had killed her, yes, but it wasn't his fault, and she whispered it to him as she slid her arms around his waist to pull herself closer to him. He shook his head at her mournfully and pulled her up and on to his lap, burying his face in the crook of her neck with a sigh.

"I'm so sorry," he choked into her skin, rocking her back and forth in his arms, "If I had...If we..."

"Ssh," she cooed, settling her palms up around his neck, stroking the back of his head soothingly, "It's not your fault, Doctor. It's Fenric; it's been Fenric all along, never you. You would never do this to me, Doctor."

She heard a piteous whine come from him as he clutched her tighter, hands balling her vest top into fists of fabric as he kissed her just below her ear on her jaw then pressed their wet cheeks together. She knew that he didn't believe her and she pulled back from him in his lap, tilting his face to look her in the eye.

"Doctor, I forgive you." She breathed, eyes welling up with tears of her own at the state he was in, eyes red-rimmed, raw and grief stricken, and wasn't surprised when he pulled his face out of her hands and leant it in the alcove at her collar bone. His hands rounded her waist, fingers kneading the soft skin left exposed by her top riding up, and Clara had to bite her lip to keep from gripping his shoulders and sighing his name. As it was she just looped her arms around his neck and rested her chin atop his head, repeating over and over and over that she didn't hate him, it wasn't his fault, Fenric had manipulated him, it wasn't the Doctor that had killed her. She had been dead from the day Fenric kidnapped her, only a few weeks ago.

"But it was me, Clara, " he said, biting back a sob, "I put that needle in your skin. I pushed that medicine into you. I killed you."

"No, you tried to save me. There's a difference. You did what you thought was right- I'll always remember that. And you did save me, for a while," she told him, stroking the nape of his neck as his sniffles gradually subsided, "I was dying, Doctor, and you brought me back to life. Who else could have done that?"

He murmured something, something that sounded like Fenric and Wolf, but she let it go for the moment, pursing her lips in thought at what it might mean. As she pondered, the Doctor eventually stopped crying and holding her so tightly, bringing his fingers to rest against her hips. Clara coughed lightly, and he moved them all the way up to her shoulder blades.

"Sorry," he apologised, lifting his head from her collar to give her a sheepish smile.

"Don't worry about it," she told him-she hadn't really minded the action, she barely felt it- then questioned, "what time is it?" Her back was to her desk, so she couldn't see the display without turning around which, with her legs, would take a lot more maneuvering that she cared to do.

"Eight O'clock," he told her, grimacing, "we have an hour and a half until your lot come round." He lifted her up off the bed and carried her through to the kitchen, sitting her on the counter. He stepped back but her legs slid out from under her and she nearly fell off the slippery surface, the Doctor only just managing to catch her and set her straight.

"Woah there," he said, holding her firmly by the shoulders to keep her on the counter.

"Thanks."

The Doctor reached up to the steel rail above their heads and selected a saucepan, settling it on the stove before placing a frying pan next to it. He leaned around Clara to reach the fridge, stacking a packet of bacon, a box of eggs, a tomato, some mushrooms and sausages on her lap before grabbing a tin of baked beans from the overhead cupboard just above her head.

"What are you doing?" She questioned, shuffling the ingredients into a much tidier pile on her lap. He ignited the gas, taking the packets of bacon and sausages from her and slapped two rashers of bacon and three fat sausages into one pan, emptying the can of beans into another.

"Making you breakfast," he replied, taking the vegetable chopping board from the rack next to the microwave. She laughed a little, watching his hands deftly twist the stalks from the small mushrooms and quickly chop them, hooking another pan from the rack and lighting another stove to cook them on. Clara gripped the counter beneath her to keep herself from falling off and tilted her head as she watched him add tomatoes in with the mushrooms.

"You're cooking me a full English?" She asked with a worried bob of her head. "The last time you tried you set yourself on fire."

The Doctor took a fish slice to the bacon to flip the slices over and did the same for the sausages. Clara was too amused by his efforts to correct his choice of utensil.

"What are you going to eat?" She asked him as he set a plate down on the other side of the oven and squirted a small pool of tomato sauce neatly on the side of it. He shrugged.

"I'm not hungry," he told her, avoiding eye contact as he searched her cupboards for the salt, which was right in front of him.

"You should eat," she argued, "you didn't have any dinner last night, you must be starving."

"Not really," he shrugged again, still feigning his search for the salt, and Clara sighed and reached over, taking the salt from right under his nose. He tried to take it from her but she withheld it, holding it backwards over her shoulder. He could have snatched it off her if he tried, but she knew that he wouldn't. Instead he turned back to the bacon, hurriedly turning off the stove when he realised that it was close to burning, and slid the rashers and the sausages onto her plate. "I don't feel hungry anymore."

Clara folded her arms across her chest, temporarily forgetting about her legs. She flailed, falling off the counter. The Doctor dropped what he was holding and grabbed her by the knees, steadying her.

"Careful," he said, leaving one hand on her left knee as he picked up the wooden spoon to stir the beans before tipping them out on the plate next to the bacon.

"You need to eat, Doctor," Clara insisted, refolding her arms now that he had her firmly by the leg. "You can't not eat because I'm ill." She watched him as he turned everything off the heat and piled it all onto her plate. It was too much for one person, which could work to her advantage. The Doctor sighed, picking up her breakfast with one hand and winding the other about her waist.

"Put your arms around my neck and I can carry you as well," he told her as she rummaged in the draw underneath her for cutlery. She raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure you're that strong?" She asked skeptically. She placed them around his neck anyway, and he hefted her higher up as he carried both her and her breakfast into her living/ dining room. He set the plate down on a placemat first then settled her into the chair. Clara caught his wrist as he turned away to get her medicine and forced him into the chair next to her, slapping the extra knife and fork she had taken into his palm. He made a noise of protest and tried to escape but she threw an arm across his chest, pinning him to his seat.

"Eat. I don't care if you're hungry or not, you need to get something down you. And besides," she pushed her plate towards him, "there's too much here for just one person."

He grumbled at her, but transferred his knife and fork into the correct hands and started on a slice of bacon. Clara smiled triumphantly and cut up a sausage.

They ate their breakfast in silence, the only sounds the constant chewing and swallowing as they worked their way through the ridiculously big portion the Doctor had made for her. It tasted better than what he usually made which was probably because Clara had been there with him, watching for if anything went wrong. Eventually she crossed her cutlery and pushed the plate over to him, stuffed. She had eaten barely half of the food but she felt so full she doubted she would need to eat for at least a week.

"So what's the plan?" Asked the Doctor with a mouth full of fried egg. She shrugged.

"Dad, Linda and Gran are coming over in about an hour, I think, although he usually turns about fifteen minutes early," she mused, head tilted, "then after lunch it's Danny-"

The Doctor nearly choked on his egg, swallowing heavily. Clara's eyes widened with concern but he waved his fork at her, motioning her to carry on.

"Danny, Macey and Lauren," she ticked them off on her fingers, "that's it."

"Not very many," the Doctor observed polishing off the last sausage (for a man who claimed he wasn't hungry, he had eaten quite a lot) "are you sure that's everyone?"

"Should be."

"No cousins?" The Doctor suggested, "Or close school friends?"

"Nope. Linda's had a string of boyfriends. No children. I have a small family," she shrugged again, "and I never really had many friends at school. Home life set me apart, I guess. I only ever had time for books, what with Mum and all."

He nodded sympathetically and finished eating, sitting back in his chair with his hands over his stomach.

"Hungry much?" she teased. He jabbed a finger at her playfully.

"Oi. I only did because you kept going on at me," he huffed, taking the plate back though to the kitchen and retrieving her wheelchair from her bedroom. When Clara saw it she pouted.

"I can't carry you all the time," he told her firmly, "my arms'll fall off," he joked.

"Yes you can," she asserted, holding out her arms to him to pick her up, adopting her best puppy expression.

"Oh, all right then," he grumbled, pretending to look fed up. Clara smirked up at him as he picked her up, holding her to him tightly as he walked down the hall to her bedroom. She rested her head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest as they went, feeling his heartbeat thrum against her palm.

The Doctor sat Clara up leaning on her pillows and flung open her wardrobe doors with both hands, setting the clothes she wanted on the duvet next to her as she picked them out, blushing when he fetched her underwear from the chest of drawers across the room. He left her medicine and a glass of water with her as well, before leaving the room to let her get on with it in private with strict instructions to call for him if anything went wrong.

Half an hour later, when the Doctor had successfully settled a fully washed and dressed Clara into her accustomed armchair in front of the telly, the doorbell rang.