Dear strikingtwelve: I'm so sorry it took me so long. I had so many things going on, I just couldn't find the time and/or the strength to write anything. I hope you're find this and that you enjoy it.
To everyone else who has ever read and/or reviewed and/or liked what I've written: thank you. Especially to those who have taken the time to comment, I know you aren't that many, so I know I could have taken the time to reply. I'm sorry. Unfortunately, I'm a horrible procrastinator. From now on, I promise I'll be better. In any case, I just wanted to let you know that it's always appreciated.

From strikingtwelve: could you do something super fluffy where Clara gets sick while on board the TARDIS and the Doctor takes care of her?

*emphasis on the fluff*

"Clara," the Doctor yelled, with his arms crossed and his right foot stamping on the metal floor of the console room.

He checked again the wristwatch his companion had given him for his birthday and scoffed, impatiently.

"Clara!" He called again, even louder than before.

"Coming," a voice echoed from a nearby corridor.

"Finally!" He bellowed.

He listened to her footsteps approaching. "Hurry up," he insisted. "Those Daleks won't exterminate themselves- Clara what the hell are you wearing?"

His friend had just entered the room bundled up in a huge, white coat which covered most of her body, and with her arms tightly wrapped around her torso.

"It's just a coat," she retorted, annoyed, with a heavy nasal tone. "Why?"

"You look like a walking snowman. God knows we've had enough of those already," he answered, while busy scrutinizing her from head to toe. She had a red nose and watery eyes, and she was shaking. "But why are you wearing it exactly?"

She sniffed loudly. "It's cold," she explained, as if it were obvious. She started jumping from one feet to the other, trying to heat herself up.

"No it's not," he argued, bewildered. "It's quite warm, actually. Is everything alright-"

But his words were swallowed by Clara, who had started sneezing. It went on for a while and, when it finally ended, Clara seemed worn out. "I'll just...Sit down for a moment. If...If you don't mind," she told him, in between ragged breaths and sniffes. She slowly made her way back to the closest set of stairs and sat down. By her groan and heavy breathing, it looked like that simple movement had required from her quite some effort. Then, she leaned her head to the side and rested it on the banister, before closing her eyes.

This alarmed the Doctor, who sprinted forwards and started shaking her. "Clara! Clara!" He shouted.

She tiredly lifted her eyelids and gave him a exasperated look. "Get off me," she protested, trying to free herself from his grip.

He immediately let go of her, but remained at an inch from her face, squinting and scrutinizing her.

"What do you want?" She asked, frowning at him.

Suddenly, she sneezed. Taken by surprise, the Doctor retreated and almost fell back. He looked at her in shock as she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"Oh my Time Lord!" he cried out. "Clara!"

He jumped forward and placed his hands back on her shoulder and started shaking her again. "What's the matter? Are you OK?" He shouted, desperately. "Are you dying?"

Clara rolled her eyes and groaned. Every shook came with a migraine, and this made it harder for her to make him stop, but when she finally managed to yell at him to leave her alone, she gasped for air and buried her head in her hands.

"Have you gone mad? Are you the Doctor or not? I've obviously got the flu."

The Doctor seemed to ponder on her words for a moment. He didn't seem entirely convinced and gave her another inquisitive look. "Are you sure?" He asked, distrustfully.

"Yes. I've had the flu before. I know what I'm talking about," she replied, dryly. "Contrarily to someone else in here..."

"What did you say?" He snapped.

"Nothing," she said, hastily.

The Doctor took a step back and kept looking at her wih a doubtful expression. His eyes examined every inch of her body, making her feel uncomfortably self-conscious. He extracted his sonic screwdriver from one of his pockets and used it to scan her. Then, he brought it closer to his eyes and read the results of his inquisition. He eventually shrugged and put back the screwdriver into an inside pocket of his jacket.

"Well, that's boring," he simply stated. "We should move on, then" and he made his way to the door of the TARDIS.

Clara looked at him in disbelief. She rolled her eyes and sighed, before gathering all her strength to help her stand up, but the movement hit her like a dagger.

"Ouch," she mumbled, automatically reaching for her forehead with her hand.

This made the Doctor turn towards her. He had risen one eyebrow, but at the same time she could detect a certain concern.

"I don't think I can make it this time, Doctor," she admitted, before telling him, not without feeling a stab to her ego, "You should go on without me."

He blinked, but didn't say a word. Instead, he crossed the room and, to Clara's astonishment, he picked her up in his arms in one, smooth movement, so unlike someone she was used to seeing running around like a drunk penguin.

The surprise made Clara yelp, and she held onto him tightly, clinging to him as if to dear life. She looked up and met the Doctor's eyes, which were much closer to hers than she was expecting them to be. This made her blush and her eyes darted automatically to his lips.

She felt her nose itching and she managed to turn her head away just in time to cover the sneeze with one hand. She turned back to look at the Doctor and found him grinning.

"Bless you."

"Thanks," she whispered. She felt her cheeks burn up and she wasn't sure if it was because of the fever, or the blushing, or both. She felt strangely vulnerable, and, for once, she thought she didn't mind.

"And by the way, that's never gonna happen," he said, still smiling.

"What is never gonna happen?" She asked, her big, and now confused, eyes still locked onto his.

"Me, going without you," he answered, with a tone that told her he was just stating he obvious.

Her lips curled into a wide smile. "Oh," she managed to murmur. "That's - unexpectedly sweet."

"It's more practical than anything, really," he said, matter-of-factly. "You're too valuable for the mission to leave you behind."

"That's a funny way to say you need me," she laughed, flicking his nose and getting a glare from him. "Very – soldier-y. I'm flattered, by the way."

"Don't be," he said, coldly. "I might let you fall."

"Hey, I'm ill!" She protested. "But what about the Daleks?"

He shrugged. "I have a time machine. They can wait."

This made her raise an eyebrow. "Then why did you rush me before?" she complained, incredulous.

"I was just bored," he said, before carrying her to her bedroom.

Clara was at her taekwondo class with year seven, following the teacher's instructions.

"It's hot in here," she realized. "Why is this lesson even taking place? It's summer! It's too hot for this!"

In fact, it was so hot, she found it hard to breath. Every inch of her body was burning. She asked for some water, but everyone ignored her. Feeling dehydrated, she stumbled away, looking desperate for water, for anything to help her cool down. The air was suffocating, and she would have done anything for some relief. If only -

Clara gasped for air as she woke up from her dream, but the overwhelming feeling of heat was still there. She immediately shoved the blankets aside. Her breathing was heavy and the feeling of suffocating was oppressing.

Suddenly she felt a movement right next to her that startled her.

"Clara, are you all right?"

The Doctor, who was sitting on an armchair close to her, put down his e-book reader and took off his glasses. He then leaned forward and looked at her attentively.

"Yes," she answered, promptly. "I mean - not really. I feel like I'm boiling. Like, literally."

The Doctor stood up.

"I'll be right back," he said seriously, before turning his back to her and rushing out of the bedroom.

Clara listened to his footsteps echo across the corridors outside of her room, until the sound faded into silence. She then turned to her left and switched on the light on her bedside table. Probably, she though, reading from an e-book reader with an illuminated screen, without any other light on, wasn't as bad for a Time Lord's eyes as it was for humans', but still.

Accustomed to darkness, the sudden light that flooded the room caught her unprepared. She squinted and covered her eyes with her right arm. By the time the Doctor came back, though, her eyes had already adjusted, and his appearance felt, to her, like a sight for sore eyes.

He came into the room carrying a glass of water in one hand and another bottle of water and a small towel in the other.

"Take these," he said, holding out the glass of water for her and two blue pills.

"What are they?" she asked him, suspiciously.

"They're aspirins," he said. "They're just... from a different time then yours. They were developed in a moment a bit in the future for you. Oh, and they're Martian."

Clara smiled nervously, but she took them anyway. She swallowed the two pills and then gulped the water down her throat in one go.

"More water," she pleaded, lending him her glass. He hastily opened the bottle he was holding and refilled it for her. She brought it to her lips and drank – slowly this time, with her eyes shut, savoring every last, refreshing drop of water. Once she had finished, she sighed loudly, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and then put down the glass.

She slid down on her back and sighed again, this time looking at the Doctor.

"Better?" He asked.

She smiled and nodded. Then, she frowned and pointed at the towel the Doctor was still holding in his hand. "What's that?"

He glanced down and looked surprised to see it there, as if he had forgotten he had it. "Oh yes," he said. "This is for you. Ehm-"

He leaned forward and placed the towel on her forehead. An "Oh," escaped her mouth when she felt an unexpected coolness meet her forehead and realised the towel was wet.

"-there," he finished, leaning back again. He pressed his fists to his hips and admired his work like an artist in front of his best painting. "What do you think?"

Her hands automatically reached for the towel and rested them on it. She released a blissful sigh. "That was such a great idea. I almost feel like a normal-temperature human being again."

Suddenly the Doctor came closer to her and rested his hands on her cheeks. "It won't last long. You're so hot, you'll heat up the towel in just a couple of minutes." As if only just aware of what he was doing, he immediately retracted his hands from her face and they both fell silent.

"I'll enjoy it while it lasts," Clara eventually said, nervously. "The aspirins'll kick in soon, anyway."

The Doctor just gave her a small smile and didn't say anything.

Clara opened her eyes to the bright light of her lamp and with the realisation she had fallen asleep in mid conversation. Her eyes moved and fixed on the Doctor. He was still reading from his kindle. Considering that his attention span could be the same one of a ten year old's at the best of times, seeing him still so focused on a book amazed her. He hadn't noticed she had woken up and she put no effort into letting him know that she had. He didn't notice even when she moved on her side and started observing him with her hands tucked between her cheek and her pillows and a smile on her lips.

"What are you reading?" She eventually asked, after a few minutes of silent contemplation.

Her words seemed to startle him. "Ehm," he hesitated. He looked like someone who had just woken up and needed some time to adjust back to reality.

"The Dispossessed," he finally managed to utter, with the same embarrassed tone of someone caught red-handed. Clara positively beamed at this and slightly lifted herself up.

"So you did listen to my suggestion!"

The Doctor didn't reply and just gave her a stern look, with his lips pressed together in a straight line.

"I still can't believe you've read so little science fiction," she filled the silence for him.

To these words, the Doctor put slowly down his kindle and crossed his arms. "It should hardly surprise you. Most of what those books say is total rubbish!"

Clara raised an eyebrow. "You're total rubbish."

"And you're being childish."

"Says the man who almost got Amyntha destroyed, the other day, just because he couldn't resist a bet with a bloody pirate."

They glared at each other for a moment, before both bursting into laughter.

"I just think that these people who write science fiction are idiots because they think they can predict the future and they get everything absolutely wrong!" He told her, frankly.

"Of course they don't predict the future!" Clara laughed, amused.

"See? You said it yourself!" He exclaimed. "I told you, idiots!"

The woman in bed chuckled. "No, I meant - they aren't trying to predict the future. That's not the point of science fiction."

The Time Lord frowned, seemingly unconvinced. "What's the point then?"

Before answering, Clara, starting to feel uncomfortable, shifted to a more comfortable, sitting position. She rubbed her aching neck with both her hands and then positioned her cushions vertically, so she could rest her back against them.

"Well, first of all, it's supposed to be entertaining. I mean, it is fiction, after all. Most stories are inventions anyway, these just happen to be a little less...realistic."

"Yes, but all of these mistakes are really distracting," the Doctor snapped.

Clara ignored his interruption and continued: "But, mostly, what I like about sci-fi is that you can talk about the future, create new worlds and parallel realities, and still say an awful lot about us, about contemporary society and its problems. Ray Bradbury said something like that, too, I don't remember the exact quote, though."

The Doctor seemed to ponder on her words.

"It makes sense, I suppose," he said, thoughtfully.

"Of course it does," she said, indignantly, yet, with a hint of pride in her voice. She loved it when he agreed so easily with her.

"If that is so, It seems that I have wasted an awful lot of time for all the wrong reasons, doesn't it?"

"And this seems like deja-vu," she said, without thinking

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she started, slowly, looking for the right words to express what she was thinking. "I mean that it's not the first time you've said something like that -"

She paused, because she felt the irritation build from the pit of her stomach, as if she was only then realising what she, herself, meant.

"- You're probably the only person who can be allowed to waist time," she blurted.

It almost came out as a whine, and she felt ashamed. She hadn't intended to come across as a spoiled child, complaining about something she couldn't have. It was just that... she just hated being reminded of her own mortality.

She looked at him with serious eyes. His mighty eyebrows were risen, giving him a surprised expression. He was taken aback by her words and she guessed he didn't like to be reminded of her mortality either.

"And you don't waist time, anyway," she continued. She still felt disappointed longing and irritation churn inside of her, but she had her voice more under control. "You save entire civilizations on a daily basis, I think you can afford to catch up on sci-fi novels a little late."

Not that it matters, she thought to herself, who needs science fiction when you are already living the sci-fi life?, but she didn't say it out loud. That was hardly the point she was trying to make.

"I would like to have all the time you have to waste."

"I don't think you would," he said quietly. "It's not easy to appreciate life when you have so many days to fill, when you've already done so much, seen so much. And this makes life unbearable. Trust me, I would know."

He sighed, before continuing. "That's why I learned to seize every moment. It helps me to remain true to myself – or to whom I'm trying to live up to, anyway. The Doctor, that is. I'm not that man, but remembering how much every moment counts helps me to live up to the promise I made to myself. I become dangerous when I forget."

He paused, thoughtfully. "And anyway," he went on, sadly. "I might last, but not so everything that truly matters – that truly matters to me. So I don't get to waist time either."

She bit her lip and swallowed. "Maybe. But you don't get to decide what's better for me. And I know that I don't ever want to stop running. With you."

She tried to keep her voice firm, but, when she spoke, she felt it waver.

"Why can't I be like you?"

Clara saw the Doctor's eyes soften around the edges and he gave her a sad smile. "You're more like me than I would have thought possible for anyone."

His tone wasn't reproachful, but if she had been searching for pride in his voice she would have been out for some bitter disappointment.

"But," and, as he continued, his voice turned back to normal - so warm and Scottish -, "I will make every moment count for you, I promise."

Her heart skipped a beat and she smiled. "You're already doing a good job, trust me."

He mirrored her smile and his eyes shined. He reached out for her cheek and caressed it gently with his thumb.

"You're hot again," he noticed. "I should go and get some more medicine. Maybe make you something to eat, you haven't eaten in a while."

"No, stay," she said, immediately. "Later. I know it's silly, but..." She took a deep breath, as if for courage. "- I would rather if you read to me. You know, what you were reading before. I feel like it would make me feel better. Does this make any sense?"

The Doctor shook his head, amused. "No. That's probably the fever talking. You're delirious."

But he didn't move and, instead, reached for his e-book reader. He switched it on and started reading.

As she listened to him, she felt a shiver follow the length of her spine. She slid even further under the covers and curled up with her arms embracing her knees.

Her eyes fell closed before even realising how tired she was. All that talking had strained her. She yawned an impossibly big yawn and fell asleep, lulled by the Doctor's comforting voice.

"Come on, quick!" Clara yelled. Her voice seemed almost back to normal, now, and her throat didn't hurt every time she spoke a bit louder than a whisper.

"It's starting," she urged, again.

She heard a groan coming from just outside the door of her bedroom.

"It's Netflix, Clara," the Doctor lamented, as he came in, holding a seemingly heavy tray. "You know we can start and stop it whenever we like, right?"

"Yes," she said, innocently. "I just wanted you to hurry up."

"Why?"

"Because I missed you," she teased him.

He blushed. "That's -", and he attempted to say something, but only inarticulate sounds came out of his mouth.

She laughed. She loved seeing him embarrassed and uncomfortable.

"Don't flatter yourself too much," she grinned. "I was only joking."

She said that even though it wasn't true. She did miss his company. When he left her alone, to cook or to fetch something for her, or whatever, it felt as if he'd take all the warmth out of the room with him. She was glad he was back.

He frowned at her, and then leaned forward to lay the tray on her lap. She felt the part of her legs which had come in contact with the metal tray warm up. It was a very pleasant sensation, to say the least. She looked down and saw a foaming bowl of soup. Nothing special, but it smelt warm and delicious.

"I was just hungry and eager to start Jessica Jones. By the way, thank you for cooking for me," she said.

"It was my pleasure," he smiled back at her. "It's nice to see you with an appetite. It means you're better now. Everyday you're not well seems unbearably long."

It was her turn to blush, now.

I don't need you to take care of me, I don't need you to take care of me, I don't need you to take care of me, she repeated silently in her head. Yes, she didn't need him to take care of her. But it was in moments like these that she liked to let him.

Clara's eyes flattered open, while the rest of her begged her to go back to sleep. It's funny how this can happen, no matter how tired we are. Do are eyes know something we don't? In the silence of the night - was it though? It was dark, but the TARDIS, most ironically, always made her lose all sense of time - they focused on the Doctor. In her state of drowsiness, she wasn't surprised to find him still there. In those few days he had never left her side, if not to fetch her food or medicine. And as she drifted back to sleep, Clara found herself wishing he never would.

"Are you sure you're ready?"

"I'm sure."

"So you're definitely better? Please don't lie."

"Definitely better," she echoed. "I promise."

She laughed quietly as she finished dressing up. Fresh, clean clothes on a freshly clean body - she felt alive again. She'd been yearning for a shower for days, and now that she finally had had the chance to take one, at the cost of sounding melodramatic, it felt as if she'd come back from the dead.

Not that those days had been terrible, on the contrary. But she missed the adventure, and the anticipation of it gave her energy.

"So, are you ready to go fight some Daleks?" She asked, eagerly, as she finally came out of her room.

"I could ask you the same question," he said, grumpily.

"You already did," she groaned. "Several times." Then something occurred to her and she looked at him suspiciously.

"You haven't already started without me, have you?" She asked, worried.

He smiled. "Without you?" He asked, amused. "Never."

She smiled back at him. The Doctor was looking at her with the same adoration he had worn those last few days – no matter how terrible she must have looked, all sick and messy. The same adoration she had pretended not to notice, but, wow, did it make every inch of her smile.