Clara shivered as she walked carefully down the steps, pulling her cardigan a little more tightly around herself. The Doctor was sitting at his desk on the lower level of the TARDIS, book open in front of him, fingers splayed out on the pages, head propped up in one hand. She could tell from the set of his shoulders and the way he slouched in his chair that he still wasn't feeling well and she regretted her harsh words of the night before.
"Doctor?"
His head slipped from his hand as he startled awake. Clara smiled at this.
"Didn't think you were reading," she said. "The snoring gave it away."
He did not turn to look at her and didn't speak, his movements slow and deliberate as he marked his place and added the book to a teetering stack next to the lamp. Clara wanted to wrap her arms around him from behind, lay her head against him and apologize for being cranky and unfair but she knew it wouldn't be well received. She rested her hand on his back instead, one thumb stroking the fabric of his hooded jacket.
"You've changed," she said.
"Please, Clara, not this again." He huffed out an impatient sigh and pushed himself slowly from his desk. "Yes, I've changed. It's time you got used to it."
"No, no, I mean your clothes," Clara said quickly. "You've changed clothes."
He glanced down at himself. "So I have." He turned and gave her a head-to-toe appraising glance. "And what about you? Do you always get dressed up to stay home?"
"No, of course not." She fastened her cardigan to the top button, fingers moving clumsily. It was so chilly she could see her breath. "I'm leaving in a few minutes, I wanted to check on you first."
"You're going to work? But the last time I scanned you…"
"I know what it said, you were waving the sonic right under my nose all night." Clara felt herself growing irritated again and tried to soften her tone. "But honestly, I feel fine. I can't call out just because I might start feeling poorly later; it's difficult finding someone to cover classes on a Monday morning. Plus there's an important assembly this afternoon."
He nodded and brushed past her, ascending the steps to the console room. She followed, her legs feeling leaden and achy.
"Going somewhere?" she asked as she joined him at the console, trying to keep her tone light.
He made a noncommittal noise, his fingers moving rapidly over the keypad.
"You sure you're up to it? Last night was kind of rough...you didn't sound well at all."
He gave her a sidelong look and then turned his attention to the viewscreen. Clara studied him in profile, his mouth drawn down, brow furrowed. He didn't seem angry. She'd seen angry on him before and it didn't look like this. She'd hurt his feelings.
"Nothing for you to worry about, Clara,' he said finally, his words sounding clipped and harsh.
"I'm sorry if I upset you," she said. "I didn't mean it."
"I'm not upset, Clara," he said. "I'm trying to stay out of your way, just as you asked me to."
"You know, I could get in touch with your otter family if you need a good sulk," she said. "Maybe they saved your room for you."
He continued to turn dials and adjust settings without looking at her. "Toddle off to work, Clara," he said. "Impressionable young minds to mold and all that."
Clara sighed. She hated to leave it like this but she really didn't feel like coaxing him out of his mood. She rested one hand on his briefly. "Take care of yourself," she said before she turned and left.
Clara leaned against the corridor wall outside her flat. There were approximately twenty more steps to her front door, then she could stagger into the bedroom, fall face first on the bed and sleep until she felt better, maybe for a month.
She shouldn't have tried to go to work. She should have listened to the Doctor. He'd warned her how quickly the virus was replicating, how brisk her immune response was, how soon she'd be feeling the effects, but she'd thrown a pillow at him and sent him to the TARDIS. No wonder he'd been hurt. He'd only been trying to help in his own infuriating way.
She took a few more stumbling steps toward her flat, then reached out a hand to brace herself. She wished they'd left each other on better terms this morning. Hopefully he'd found a lovely planet somewhere with a sunwashed beach and was stretched out, basking in the warmth. Clara smiled despite her own growing misery. It sounded lovely. She closed her eyes, imagining she could hear the gentle lapping of the waves, the cry of some kind of exotic bird, could feel the sun warming every inch of her.
She began to slide along the wall and caught herself. No sleeping until she was inside. When she reached her door she fumbled her keys in the lock and stepped inside, shivering and coughing painfully as she made her way toward the kitchen. She was well and truly ill now, she could feel it in her aching bones and in her throbbing head.
Clara tossed her mobile to the counter and grabbed the first thing she could find to drink. She considered chugging the orange juice straight from the container to save energy, but reconsidered and took down a glass, filling it and sipping at it carefully as she staggered into her bedroom.
She wandered around removing her work clothes, letting them fall to the floor haphazardly. She didn't care about wrinkles or ruined stockings or scuffs on her shoes. She craved cozy and warm and she needed it now; her flannel sleep pants, an oversized long-sleeve shirt, fuzzy socks. She froze when she spotted the Doctor's holey jumper lying neatly over the back of her chair, almost as if it had been left for her.
Her fingers twitched for a moment as she considered whether or not to take it and then she snatched the jumper up, pulling it over her head and burying her face in the soft, nubby fabric. Through her stuffy nose she thought she detected a faint trace of his familiar scent , earthen green woods and the air after a rain, and she took a shuddering breath, tears threatening. She wanted him here.
Clara shook her head impatiently, dashing at her eyes with one hand. He wasn't here and there was no use wishing for it. She was ill, feeling over-emotional and an evening of rubbish telly and a nap on the couch would take care of it. She wandered into the sitting room and stopped short, her heart hammering hard in her chest.
The TARDIS was sitting in its usual spot, taking up much of the space in the room and blocking the television. She moved toward it quickly, half-afraid it might dematerialize in front of her. She barely had her head in the door before she was calling out for him.
"Doctor?" she said, her voice cracking painfully. She smothered a cough in her sleeve. Okay, maybe she wouldn't shout for him again, just look around a bit.
She edged around the console, intent on the door at the far end of the space. Her room on the TARDIS was nearby, except she never knew exactly how to find it. Usually she'd walk along with the idea of it in her mind and would be seized with the sudden notion that she should veer down the corridor to her right or head down a flight of steps to the left. Its location changed depending on the mood of the TARDIS and she hoped it was close. Her arms and legs felt like lead weights pulling her down and she needed to find a place to rest soon.
And then it was there, tickling her mind, the idea that she needed to make a left at the next bend in the corridor and walk straight ahead. She stood in the doorway that appeared, blinking blearily. It wasn't the room she'd been expecting, the one with the floral duvet and overstuffed chair. Instead Clara was standing in a vast room, done all in silver and grey and metallic tones, the only illumination tiny twinkling lights around the perimeter of the ceiling high above her head. Much of the space was taken up with an enormous bed, its surface so plush she thought she'd likely sink three or four inches deep if she crawled in.
As she glanced around, mouth open, Clara sensed someone else in the room. A figure rose from a chair tucked away in a darkened corner and she heard slow, measured footsteps approaching.
"Doctor," she said, when she recognized him. "Is this your room?"
"It appears to be, yes." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around, one eyebrow raised. "What do you think of it?"
Her first impression remained: severe, almost industrial on the surface, but promising comfort and ease despite its appearance.
"I think it suits you," she said. "But why did you sleep on my couch if you have this?'
He shrugged. "Couldn't find it until today." He perched uneasily on the edge of the bed. "And now it won't let me leave. I try, but then I get turned around and end up right back here every time."
"I guess the TARDIS knows you need to rest."
Clara passed a trembling hand across her face. Why did the room suddenly feel so hot and why was everything undulating in a slow sickening wave around her? She reached a hand behind herself, then in front, searching for anything solid to lean against. She staggered to one side and then she was falling, feeling herself gathered up in strong arms and set down gently in the center of the bed, a soft duvet floating around her. She closed her eyes against the wooziness, the surface of the bed rolling underneath her like the deck of a ship.
Clara woke suddenly, head throbbing, eyes feeling like cinders smoldering in the sockets. How long had she been sleeping? She rolled over and eased her way toward the edge, reaching out one foot carefully but only encountering more bed.
"How big is this thing anyway?" Clara muttered. "How much sleeping room does one time lord who doesn't actually sleep all that much need?"
She reached the edge of the mattress, untangled herself from the blankets and stepped down. She winced at the sensation of her feet hitting the floor. She'd have to walk carefully or she would jar something loose in her head and that wouldn't do at all. She wavered and felt a solid, steadying presence beside her.
"What are you doing out of bed?" The Doctor's tone was gently reproving. "You're ill."
"Water," she said groggily, leaning her head against him. "And...and paracetamol. And maybe something to kill myself with, and my mobile. I think I left it in the kitchen." Her eyes flew open at that. "Oh god, that's right. I thought I heard a text come in, but how could I? Anyway, very important, need to get to the kitchen, excuse me."
"Lie down," he said. It took only a gentle push to send Clara crashing back to the bed like a felled tree. "I'll fetch everything, though I'm not promising I'll be able to find my way back again."
"That was fast," Clara said when he returned a few minutes later carrying a glass glistening with condensation and the bottle of paracetamol. "Did you leave a trail of bread crumbs?"
He retrieved her mobile from his pocket as Clara sat up and swallowed a few tablets with a mouthful of cold water.
"What are you doing?" she said, setting the glass aside and holding out a hand for her phone. "Those are private."
"P.E.," he said, thumbing through the messages. "P.E. again. And again." He was unable to keep an impatient look from his face. "Five texts, Clara. He's a little needy, wouldn't you say?"
"Five? Let me have that." She scrolled the messages quickly. "Oh, no. No no no. He wants to come by after maths club, which is..." She checked the timestamp and groaned. "...was thirty minutes ago. He's on his way over right now."
"Shouldn't you be happy about that?"
Clara clenched her phone tightly and buried her head in her hands. "Yes," she said. "No. I don't know. It's just...I think he's probably going to be all affectionate and clingy and I can't stand that. I don't want someone fussing over me when I'm ill."
She lifted her head and punched in a quick text, chewing at her lower lip while she waited for a reply. "Nothing," she said, sighing and tossing her mobile to one side.
"Do you want him here on not?" the Doctor asked in a soft voice. His expression was unreadable but something in his eyes forced her to be honest with him.
"No, I don't."
"I'll take care of it," he said.
"Wait," she called after him. "What are you going to do?" She had visions of him meeting Danny at the door, arguing, sending him away. She might as well write off the whole relationship if that happened.
"Leave it to me, Clara."
The next time she awoke, the room was dark, the only sound the low ambient hum of the TARDIS. She felt strong fingers stroking her brow and turned toward the sensation. The Doctor's voice was nearly a whisper as he spoke.
"Is this how you do it?"
"Do what?"
"The comforting thing."
"Yeah, not quite so emphatic if you don't mind," Clara said. "My head is still killing me."
At that the pressure lessened and his touch was nothing more than a gentle caress, hand moving to trace the contours of her head, long fingers weaving into the ends of her hair.
She was silent for a moment, relaxing under his touch, and then curiosity overcame her.
"Why?" she asked.
His hand stilled. "Why what?"
"The comforting thing. Why are you doing it?"
"You were moaning in your sleep. Or maybe it was meowing, I couldn't tell. You were making some kind of distressing noise and I thought it would help. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Clara said. "Actually feels really nice."
"Yep, I didn't mind it either."
She turned her head slightly. It was hard to see him in the gloom but he was sitting next to the bed, shoulders slumped, lips pursed in a frown.
"You look tired," she said.
"Flatterer."
No, I mean it," she said. "You don't look well. And I know you're still feeling ill, no matter what you say. "
He did not deny it. She rolled over to face him and pushed herself up on one elbow. He would not meet her eyes.
"Doctor," she said, "You need to rest. Will you lie down with me?"
"I can't, Clara," he said, in a voice so weary that her stomach clenched in sympathy.
And suddenly she wanted nothing more than him beside her in this expansive bed. She wanted to feel that same comfortable tangle of arms and legs, wanted to be gathered up in his arms, protected from the world. She knew he wanted it, too. He so seldom let the mask slip but she could see it in his eyes, the longing on his face. She reached out for his hand and he grasped hers tightly in return.
"I'm asking you," she said. She moved over to make room for him, patting the space next to her, inviting him in. "Please."
He stood quickly and Clara sighed. She'd pushed too hard and he was going to turn his back and walk away, leaving her by herself again. But instead he bent to remove his boots and sank down on the edge of the bed.
"Are you sure, Clara?" He spoke quietly without looking at her, his tone somber. "You're not delirious? You're not going to shout at me to be quiet or to leave you alone? You're not going to throw my sonic screwdriver across the room or toss a pillow at my head or suddenly decide you need Danny here? You have to tell me now because I am tired and I do want to lie down with you, but you need to let me know if I'll regret it."
She reached out toward him, placed a hand on his back, felt him stiffen under her touch. "You won't regret it, Doctor," she said. "I want you here."
He nodded and stretched out next to her, clearly ill at ease, hands bunched in the pocket of his hooded jacket, legs crossed at the ankles, not relaxed, not comfortable. Clara lay on her side watching him, easing slowly toward him. The one time he'd curled up with her he'd been half out of his head with fever, didn't know what he was doing. Maybe this was a mistake. She edged a little closer, saw him shoot a sideways glance at her, his manner telling her to keep her distance for a bit.
"Are you cold?"
Without waiting for an answer, she gently tossed part of the quilt to cover him. He made no move to pull it up, lying still and staring up at the ceiling. Clara moved as close as she dared, resting her chin on his shoulder, wanting to feel his arms around her but knowing this would have to be enough. She couldn't ask more of him than he was willing to give.
She heard a sharp intake of breath and he turned to his side, sitting up as a sudden fit of coughing overtook him. The coughs were deep, rattling in his chest, shaking his thin frame and Clara encircled him with her arms as it overtook him. His hands came up and grasped her arm tightly, whether for comfort or to brace himself, Clara couldn't tell.
When the paroxysm passed, he sank back down to the bed with her still wrapped around him. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his breath wheeze in and out as he recovered.
"We're a pair, aren't we?" she said. He made a soft noise and turned toward her, resting his head near hers on the pillow.
Clara's eyes flew open at the sound of her ringtone nearby.
"You should get that," the Doctor mumbled. "That'll be Danny."
"Danny?" Clara fumbled her phone from under her pillow. Sure enough. She turned to her other side as she accepted the call.
"Hey you," she said. She felt the Doctor press himself against her, front to back, one arm gathering her up closely.
"Yeah, I do sound awful, thanks."
At the feel of the Doctor's hand against her stomach, Clara sucked in a deep breath and tried to keep her voice from wobbling. "Just the flu that's been going around." She tried to concentrate on what Danny was telling her. "It's fine, really. It must be important or his parents wouldn't have asked to meet with you tonight."
The Doctor buried his nose in her hair and Clara closed her eyes. "No, it's getting late," she told Danny. "Go on home when you've finished. I'm already in bed and I'm staying here. Doctor's orders."
(A/N: This will be the only time in the many years I've been writing fan fiction that I will ask my readers to be kind. Chapter Five was completed two weeks ago, lost after the failure of a jump drive and rewritten painstakingly while sitting around doctor's offices, a hospital and then a nursing home. This is the end of the domesticity but I'm not marking it complete yet. I could always park them on the couch together for some more recovery time if you'd like. Let me know and thanks for reading/reviewing/favoriting.)